


Machine

by 4ce_in_sp4ce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Guilty John, Kinda?, M/M, Post S2, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Self-Harm, Sherlock is very Not Okay, So much angst, Suicide Attempt, accidental drug use (?), i'm so sorry if i've missed something this is a really angsty fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-14 15:51:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11211267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4ce_in_sp4ce/pseuds/4ce_in_sp4ce
Summary: When Sherlock came back from the dead, John was hurt and angry. It took Sherlock almost dying again, however, for him to realize just how hurt, and how human, Sherlock was.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this fic for a while now, and thought that publishing it might make me actually finish it... I have a fair amount written already so it'll update probably a few times a week for at least a little

John sat in the hospital room, head in hands. Outside, the wind howled, promising terrible weather sometime in the next few days. John supposed it was fitting; everything else had gone to shit in the last 12 hours, so why not the weather too?

The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room. Occasionally an announcement would sound in the hallway, but it was almost three in the morning, so they were few and far between. The nurse hadn’t some in in a while, which John took to be a good sign. She would’ve been in more often if something was wrong.

Sherlock lay in the bed, unmoving except for his breathing. John couldn’t bring himself to look at Sherlock’s arms, or the bandages wrapped tightly around his wrists. He just tried to focus on the fact that Sherlock was here and that he would be okay. The prognosis was good. It was going to be okay.

“You should go home, John.”

John looked up, startled. He hadn’t heard Mycroft come in. “I’m fine. I want to be here when he wakes up.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” John had never seen Mycroft look this uncomfortable.

“Please, I just…I need to do this, okay?” He looked back down at the bed, still refusing to look at Sherlock’s arms.

Mycroft nodded and pulled a chair over. “Then at least let me sit with you.”

They sat in silence for several minutes, only the beeping of the heart monitor between them. John sighed. “Mycroft, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet. “I should’ve seen this coming. There had to have been signs. How could I have missed them?”

“You’re not infallible, Mycroft. You can’t see everything.” John watched Sherlock’s still frame. “And you’re not the only one who missed the signs. We all did.”

X X X

_John stood on the steps to 221b Baker Street hesitantly. It had been a while since he’d been back, longer than he wanted to admit. He knew it was stupid of him to hold out like this, Sherlock was his friend and the man may be an ass but he never did anything without a reason, but John was still pissed. He had been left to mourn for two years without explanation only for Sherlock to return like nothing was wrong. Still, he missed the man, and he supposed it was time to forgive him. He’d honestly forgiven him a while ago, and had just been too stubborn to admit it._

X X X

 

Sherlock woke up midmorning. Mycroft had gone to get coffee and John had been dozing, but he woke up immediately when he heard Sherlock moving.

Sherlock was sitting up slightly and looking around, confused. “What…where…no.” He looked down at his wrists, frowning. “No, no it was supposed to work, I wasn’t supposed to wake up, why…?” He looked up and saw John, his expression immediately hardening. “Why are you here?”

John sat up. “God, Sherlock, I was so worried. What happened? Why…?”

Sherlock lay back down, turning away from John. “I need my rest, Dr. Watson. I’d prefer if you left me alone. You didn’t have much trouble with that before, so I don’t see why it should be a problem now.”  
John swallowed hard. He gripped the edge of his chair, watching Sherlock, trying to find something, some reason to stay, but there was nothing. “I-I’ll be outside if you need anything, yeah?”  
Sherlock didn’t answer or looked up as John got up and left.

He was sitting on the floor outside the door when Mycroft came back a few minutes later. Mycroft set a coffee down beside him. “I take it he’s awake?” John just nodded without saying anything.

X X X

Sherlock lay in the hospital bed trying desperately not to think. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d planned it perfectly. He’d told Mrs. Hudson that he was working on an experiment and that it was better if she didn’t come into the flat. He’d told Lestrade that he had an independent case and couldn’t consult with Scotland Yard until next week. He’d told Mycroft that he was going to be sleeping for the first time in 60 hours and that he would personally murder him if he woke him up. He hadn’t told John anything because John never came by anymore.

He was supposed to be dead. Everything was supposed to be over and he was supposed to be gone but here he was in the hospital room, wrists bandaged and vitals good. He could feel Mycroft watching him but he refused to look over.

He briefly considered trying something in the hospital, maybe an overdose on medication, but he knew it was pointless. Mycroft would be watching like a hawk and he’d never get away with it. He’d blown his only chance. Now all he could do was simply lie there and figure out what to do next.  
X X X

_The first time had been an accident. Sherlock had been working on an experiment, trying to keep his mind off the memories, off the pain, off John. He should’ve known better than to work on an experiment while upset. He needed to focus and emotions always kept him from doing that._

_The scalpel had slipped and sliced his forearm. It wasn’t a bad cut but it hurt like hell. He swore, dropping the scalpel and reaching for a towel. He didn’t want the cut to become infected. It wasn’t until after he’d gotten the bleeding to stop that he realized he’d managed to forget about everything else while he focused on the cut. The pain had blocked everything else out. He wasn’t sure what this meant, but he filed it away for future reference._

X X X

John stood in the kitchen trying to focus on making tea. Sherlock had been released from the hospital that morning and Mycroft had insisted that John move back into the flat. John had been planning on doing that anyways, even before this had happened, but Sherlock had initially refused. It wasn’t until Mycroft had told Sherlock that he either lived with John or with him that he finally agreed.

The hospital hadn’t wanted to fully release Sherlock. They’d wanted to release him to the psychiatric ward, but for once the Holmes brothers agreed on something. Sherlock had just flat out refused, and Mycroft had argued that confining Sherlock in a hospital with other people for an indefinite amount of time was a terrible idea and would probably end with someone dead. The flat was the best place for him to recover.

Mrs. Hudson had immediately set about making tea when they got in, bustling around and talking about nothing in particular like she always did when she was nervous. Sherlock had stopped her, saying he didn’t want any tea, apologized for the stain he’d left in the carpet, and walked upstairs. Mrs. Hudson watched him go and made John promise to let her know if they needed anything.

“It’s good to have you back here, John. Sherlock’s too stubborn to admit it, but I know he missed you. I think you being here will help him…get better.”

John had nodded and headed upstairs after Sherlock, trying not to think about the last time he’d been here. He purposefully avoided the rug in the center of the living room where he knew there was a large red stain. He’d seen more than his fair share of blood stains, both as a doctor and a soldier, but he didn’t think he could handle this one at the moment.

Now he leaned against the kitchen counter waiting for the water to boil. He could hear Sherlock in the living room moving things around, muttering to himself about Mycroft messing up the order of things. If John tried hard enough, he could imagine that it was like it was before, before Reichenbach, before Sherlock had come back from the dead, before John had found him on the floor covered in his own blood. Not quite, but almost.

Sherlock didn’t look up as John entered the room, tea in hand. “I already told you and Mrs. Hudson, I don’t want any tea.”

John set the cup down on a side table. “Just in case you change your mind. I’ll be unpacking if you need anything, okay?”

Sherlock snorted, still not looking up. “Ah, yes, I forgot, you’re moving back in. How kind of you. I’m fine.”

John nodded and stood there awkwardly for a minute before heading upstairs to his room where Mycroft had put his bags, face burning the entire way there.

X X X

The flat was a mess. Sherlock was asleep on the couch so John was walking through the flat taking stock of its condition. Papers and experiments were everywhere, books were strewn across every surface, there was dust on everything, and almost no food in the kitchen. John would have to make a massive trip to the store sometime soon if he didn’t want them to starve or live entirely off of takeout.

He sighed and picked up the now stone cold cup of tea from the side table. Sherlock hadn’t even touched it. In fact, John was pretty sure Sherlock hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since he’d gotten to the flat.

Sorry to bother you, but would you be willing to pick up some groceries? I don’t want to leave Sherlock alone, but there’s absolutely nothing in the flat. –JW

Of course, it’s no problem. I’ll drop them off soon. How is he? –MH

Well, he’s currently asleep, which is good. He needs as much rest as he can get right now. The flat is in terrible condition though. How long has this been going on? –JW

I think a lot longer than any of us suspected. –MH

John sighed again and set about cleaning the flat as quietly as he could, starting in the kitchen. He washed dirty dishes that had clearly been in the sink for weeks, moved experiments to less dangerous places, and tried to make the kitchen table safe to eat off of again. Forty-five minutes later, there was a light knock on the door.

John opened it to find Mycroft standing there with several shopping bags. He motioned for Mycroft to come in and follow him to the kitchen.

“I see you’ve started cleaning.” Mycroft kept his voice down, not wanting to wake Sherlock.

“I had to actually throw out a few dishes because they had been left so long. It’s…the entire flat is in bad shape.” John leaned against the counter. “Sherlock doesn’t seem…pleased to have me here either.”

Mycroft nodded, looking down. “Don’t take this the wrong way, John, but I can’t really blame him. You’re here now, I know that and I trust you on that 100 percent, but you weren’t here before, and that’s what he’s basing his expectations on. Give him time. You know how stubborn us Holmes brothers can be.”

John just nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The two of them put the groceries away in silence. Mycroft headed back out, telling John to contact him if he needed anything at all. John promised he would.

Sherlock woke up about an hour later, sitting up groggily on the couch. John set a plate of pasta in front of him. “You need to eat.”

Sherlock frowned and dropped back on the couch. “Not hungry.”

John sighed. “Sherlock, you just got out of the hospital. You need to eat. We’re not arguing about this.”

Sherlock settled against the back of the couch and reluctantly picked up the plate and started eating. He finished half of it before setting it on the table and curling back up on the couch, clearly done. John put the plate in the sink, just glad that he’d gotten Sherlock to eat in the first place.


	2. Chapter 2

_Sherlock sat in his chair across the table from John, keeping his face blank. John was standing, shouting. Sherlock had thought that John would be happy to see him again, after two years, but apparently not. Apparently what he had done was “heartless” and “cruel”. There had been a reason, Sherlock never did anything without a reason, but John obviously wasn’t willing to listen right now._

_So Sherlock sat there, unmoving, telling himself that John had missed him as much as he’d missed John, he was just angry right now. And people said stupid things when they were angry, things they didn’t mean._

X X X

Sherlock lay on the couch, waiting for John to go to bed. It was strange having John in the apartment again. He’d almost gotten used to the flat being empty and silent. It had almost become a sort of miserable companion. And now it had been banished, replaced by John’s uncomfortable movements, cleaning the flat and organizing things to keep the awkwardness from setting in. If he didn’t stay still long enough he wouldn’t have to face the situation.

John hadn’t even visited the flat in months, much less lived in it. Why did he have to be here now? He’d never come before, not when Sherlock had asked him, begged him, to come by, yet here he was now. Sherlock wondered if it still felt like home to him. He also wondered how long before he left.

Finally John went to bed, muttering a goodnight and heading upstairs, telling Sherlock not to hesitate to wake him if he needed anything. Sherlock didn’t say anything to that; he figured his silence got across what he wanted to say just fine.

Without John downstairs, the flat felt empty again. It felt like it had for the months since Sherlock had come back, and Sherlock felt the emptiness settle in his gut like it had every night before. He curled a little tighter, trying to make the feeling go away. The flat wasn’t empty anymore, at least not for now, but the emptiness wouldn’t leave.

Pain.

He wanted pain.

Pain would make it go away. It would drown everything else out. The emptiness wouldn’t matter, the memories wouldn’t matter, nothing would matter. He knew he couldn’t, though. He knew John would see the cuts and he would tell Mycroft and then Sherlock would have to deal with Mycroft and he didn’t want that. So he settled for the second best thing.

Sherlock kept his cigarettes under the skull. He hadn’t had to worry about John finding them since he came back, but Mycroft would stop by occasionally and had confiscated them several times. He grabbed a couple and headed to the window, opening it so that the smoke would drift out.

It had been a while since he last smoked, so the first couple of drags set him off coughing, but it was worth it. The smoke in his lungs seemed to lessen the emptiness, though not as much as he would’ve liked. He savored the taste of the smoke in his mouth, the cloying bitterness of the tobacco.

The weather was cold and the slight breeze coming in from outside and Sherlock shivered. He briefly considered getting a jacket, but decided against it. The cold was numbing and it felt good. He drew his legs up and settled on the windowsill, lighting the second cigarette.

X X X

_John opened the door and walked inside. Mrs. Hudson poked her head out, surprised._

_“Oh, John, dear! It’s lovely to see you! Certainly been a while.” She smiled and gave John a small hug. “Sherlock’s upstairs with some sort of experiment. Told me it would be better if I didn’t go into the flat. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you, though.”_

_John smiled and headed up the stairs. The steps felt familiar beneath him, creaking and bending. He could only imagine what sort of experiment Sherlock was doing right now that made it so that Mrs. Hudson couldn’t go into the flat. He thought perhaps he should come back at another time when Sherlock wasn’t wrapped up in something like this, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He’d gone too long without coming back as it was. He’d interrupted Sherlock’s experiments before; this wouldn’t be any different_

_John reached the top of the stairs and hesitated. He took a deep breath and knocked. The flat was silent, no sign of life. John frowned and knocked again. Still nothing. He tried the door and found it unlocked. He opened it slowly, stepping into the room cautiously._

_“Sherlock?”_

X X X

John came downstairs at 7, hoping that he would find Sherlock still asleep. Unfortunately, and unsurprisingly, Sherlock was sitting at the table peering intently through a microscope, clearly having been awake for a while.

John sighed. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“I’m fine. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” Sherlock didn’t even look up.

_That’s a questionable statement given the state I found the flat in_ , John thought, but he kept it to himself. This was not the time to be getting into a row. He just walked into the kitchen to start breakfast instead. He stopped when he saw the experiment Sherlock was working on.

“Sherlock, is that toxic mold on those slides?” Sherlock grunted in what John assumed was confirmation. John rushed over and moved them away. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you have open wounds on your arms. You shouldn’t be anywhere near toxic mold.”

Sherlock sat up, annoyed. “I already told you, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don’t need you here to babysit me.”

“I’m not babysitting you, I’m trying to help…”

Sherlock leveled him with a cold glare. “Yes, well, you came a little late in the game for that, didn’t you.” He stood up and walked across the flat to his room. “I’m not hungry, either, so don’t bother with breakfast.” The sound of his door slamming shut echoed through the flat.

John stood there, feeling like he’d been punched. Sherlock’s words had hit him like a physical force. He just stood there, watching Sherlock’s door, unable to think of anything to say. Eventually he turned and walked slowly into the kitchen, trying not to focus on the shame burning in his gut.

X X X

Sherlock stayed sequestered the entire day. John stayed in the living room in case Sherlock needed anything, but he didn’t hear anything from the man the whole day. Finally his concern with the silence combined with the fact that Sherlock needed to change his bandages overruled his desire to give Sherlock space.

He knocked on the door quietly. “Sherlock?” He didn’t hear anything and his concern grew. “Sherlock?”

There was a slight shuffling and the door opened abruptly. Sherlock stood there, looking annoyed. “What? I didn’t try to kill myself again if that’s what you’re worried about.”

John swallowed and looked down. “We need to change your bandages. Every other day for two weeks to avoid infection.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly and pushed past John. “I can do it alone.”

“Sherlock, the bandages are around your wrists, and you need two hands to properly wrap them. There’s no way you can properly do it alone.” John followed Sherlock into the bathroom where Sherlock was getting gauze out of the medicine cabinet. He rested his hand on Sherlock’s arm. “At least let me help you with this.”

Sherlock grudgingly handed him the gauze and sat down on the edge of the bathtub. John sat across from him and started gently unwrapping the bandages, apologizing when he felt Sherlock wince slightly.

The wounds were clean and precise, aligned almost exactly with the veins in Sherlock’s arms. They were surrounded by smaller cuts in various stages of healing, some still scabbed over, others scars, that went up his forearms, eventually disappearing under his shirt sleeves. John bit his lip and quickly wound the new gauze over the wounds, unable to look at them for long. As soon as the gauze was secure, Sherlock stood up, pulling his sleeves back down and not looking at John.

“Thank you,” he muttered before going back to his room and closing the door, though not violently as before.

X X X

Sherlock sat at the foot of his bed, staring at his wrists. He knew John had been right, there was no way he would’ve been able to properly wrap the gauze, but he wished he could’ve done it himself. Those cuts were supposed to kill him unseen, be his secret until he wasn’t here to care anymore.

It was stupid, of course John already new about them, he knew they were there, but having him actually see them? That was different. Seeing the look on John’s face as he peeled away the bandages, the shock he tried so hard to hide, had been something Sherlock had wanted to avoid and something he knew he’d see every other day for the next two weeks.

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. Why did this bother him so much? It wasn’t like John actually cared. Not about him, at least. He’d made that clear months ago. So why did he seem so concerned? Why did he act like he cared? Either way, it was useless to get attached again. It was better to be alone. Alone is what he had. Alone protected him.

X X X

_Sherlock sat up with a yell. He was drenched in sweat and his heart was beating wildly. He threw the covers off and dropped his legs over the side of the bed, hands gripping the edge of the mattress tightly, trying to calm down. He’d hoped that maybe he’d sleep through the night tonight, considering how long he’d gone without sleep recently, but apparently not._

_The clock showed just after 2, so Sherlock had gotten barely three hours of sleep. He stood up shakily and walked into the main room of the flat trying to figure out how to calm down. Rain was pouring outside, so that ruled out a walk. Maybe water would help._

_Sherlock’s hands were still shaking and he misjudged the amount of pressure he needed to hold the glass steady. He swore as he dropped it, glass shattering on the linoleum floor. Grabbing a towel to sop up the spilled water, he crouched on the floor. The shards of glass were sharp and he picked them up gingerly to avoiding cutting himself, but he wasn’t quite careful enough. A line of red ran down his finger._

_Sherlock stared at it. He knew he should stem the bleeding, but there was something fascinating, something calming, about watching the blood run down his hand. His breathing seemed to slow down, no longer coming in ragged gasps. Curious, he picked up the shard responsible. It was one of the bigger pieces, all of its edges sharp._

_He sat back against the cupboards, shard of glass in hand. He stared at it for what felt like hours before turning his attention to his pale forearm. He saw it and thought about the bruises that had covered it, that had surrounded his wrist, while he’d been tied up and held captive in Serbia. He thought of the times it had been covered in blood from other wounds, and suddenly it looked so wrong clean and unblemished. He brought the glass up and rested it against his skin, feeling the slight prick as a barely broke the skin. A red bead of blood welled up and that was all it took._

_Sherlock pushed the glass slightly deeper and pulled it across his skin, gasping at the sudden pain. He dropped his head slightly and closed his eyes, and for the first time he wasn’t greeted with flashes of memory from Serbia, just darkness and the warm feeling of blood pooling on his skin. He dropped the glass and just sat there, reveling in the silence the pain provided. After the screams that had echoed through his head, silence was the most beautiful thing he could imagine._

X X X

John sat in the living room pretending to watch TV and trying his hardest not to think about Sherlock’s wrists. Not even just his wrists; his entire arms. The cuts that littered his arms, some healed into light scars, some only a few days old, so clean and precise and so terribly Sherlock. He took a shaky breath and looked around the room, trying to distract himself.

The room felt so familiar, but there was a strangeness that was new. Before, before any of this had happened, this room had been his home, the center of his world (so had the man who had lived here with him, but he wouldn’t admit that). Everything had been so worn and comfortable. Not much had changed physically, but it felt different. John couldn’t help but think of everything that must have happened in the flat, in this room, while he was too stubborn to come back. How many times had Sherlock sat in here feeling alone and empty? How many times had he paced the room angrily? How many times had he lay on the couch, arm torn and bleeding?

The breath caught in John’s throat and he tried to stop his thoughts from continuing down that path, but it was too late. How many times had he ignored Sherlock’s texts in the months since the man had come back? How many times had he refused to see Sherlock simply out of anger and stubbornness? How many of those cuts were because of him?

Tears stung his eyes and he dropped his head in his hands. He tensed his body, trying not to make noise, not wanting to wake Sherlock up. He’d finally had the chance to come back to this flat after two years and not be alone, and he’d wasted it. He’d pushed away Sherlock when he’d needed John most, and now here he was, watching over him after a suicide attempt. His body shook as he tried to take a breath, tears running down his cheeks. Why had he been so fucking stubborn?


	3. Chapter 3

Greg sat at his desk, staring at the case file. No suspects, no leads, nothing. Normally he would’ve called Sherlock by now, but that wasn’t an option at the moment. He sighed. He wondered how the man was holding up. John, too. He didn’t know a lot about what had happened between them since Sherlock had come back, but he knew it wasn’t good. John hadn’t been with Sherlock at any of the crime scenes, and he’d been quick to change the subject anytime his name came up. Greg had figured they’d work it out soon enough. He never thought they’d end up where they were now.

“I don’t think staring at the file is going to make a suspect magically appear.”

Greg looked up to find Donovan standing in the doorway. He smiled tiredly. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

Donovan made a face. “Hate to say it, but why don’t we call the freak?”

Greg looked down. He hadn’t told anyone on the team about Sherlock yet. He hadn’t known how. It was getting to a point though that he couldn’t hide it. It would be weird if he didn’t call him by this point under normal circumstances, and people would start to wonder. He’d also avoided telling Donovan considering how much he knew she hated the man. Regardless, he knew he’d have to tell at least her at some point.

He motioned for her to sit down. “Close the door.”

Donovan did so and sat down, looking confused.

Greg shifted the papers on his desk. “Sherlock’s…not going to be working with us for a while.”

Donovan frowned. “Why? The freak finally lost it and got arrested?”

“No, he…he attempted suicide, Donovan. He just got out of the hospital a couple of days ago, and it’ll probably be a little while before he’s working on cases again.” Donovan stared at him silently from across the desk. “I didn’t want to tell people, since I’m not sure how he’d feel about other people knowing, but I figured you should know. I may have to tell Anderson too, but that’s it. Molly is already aware.” He sighed. “Please just keep this between the two of us.”

Donovan nodded slowly, stood up, and left, closing the door behind her.

X X X

_Sherlock couldn’t sleep. He’d never slept much, but it had always been a personal choice; he hadn’t slept because he didn’t want to. He’d always been able to sleep if he needed to. Now though, sleep was all he wanted. He was so tired, exhausted, but sleep simply wouldn’t come. And when it did, it came with unwanted memories that he couldn’t seem to delete no matter how hard he tried. And he had tried, over and over and over again._

_He lay curled under his covers, staring blankly at the wall. It’s been over 60 hours since he’d last slept for any significant amount of time. He’d maybe gotten twenty minutes here or there, but they’d always ended the same: sitting up, breathing hard and covered in sweat, memories playing mercilessly in his head._

_Sherlock knew he needed to talk to someone. He wasn’t stupid; he was clearly showing signs of PTSD, and he needed help. But who could he talk to? Mycroft? The Ice King wouldn’t understand. Emotions weren’t a strong suit for either of the Holmes brothers, and Mycroft would probably just tell Sherlock that he was stupid and that he needed to be stronger, like he always did when they were little. Lestrade? Lestrade was a good man, but Sherlock doubted that he was capable of helping right now. The man was an idiot; a well-meaning one, but an idiot all the same. He supposed he could talk to Molly, it was even possible that she’s already noticed something was wrong, but Sherlock knew she wouldn’t understand. She’s be there for him, she’d tell him it was going to be alright, but she wouldn’t understand. All she’d be able to offer were empty condolences and pity._

_That left John. John would understand. He would understand the frustration of wanting sleep so badly but being afraid of the nightmares it brought. He’d understand the restlessness the would possess Sherlock without warning, making the walls of the flat feel tight and confining. He’d understand the anger Sherlock felt when he couldn’t control his emotions. He’d understand the pain and emptiness that refused to leave._

_But John hadn’t visited the flat since Sherlock returned. He’d ignored Sherlock’s calls and texts. He’d refused to go to crime scenes with him or work with him at all. He didn’t want to talk to Sherlock. He didn’t want to see him or know him anymore. That much he’d made clear._

_So Sherlock didn’t even bother to reach for his phone on his nightstand. Instead, he just curled tighter under the covers, squeezing his eyes shut and pretending that he couldn’t feel the tears running down his face._

X X X

Sherlock was already up and sitting on the couch by the time John came downstairs. He was reading a book in what looked like French and looked like he’d been up for hours. John wandered into the kitchen and cleared his throat. “I didn’t see you eat anything yesterday, so I’m going to make you eggs and you’re going to eat them, alright? No arguments.” Sherlock muttered something in the other room, but didn’t protest outright, so John figured he’d be able to get him to at least eat the majority of the eggs.

Sherlock didn’t look up when John set a plate of eggs next to him on the couch. John stood there awkwardly, waiting for Sherlock to do something. When he continued to just sit there like the rest of the world didn’t exist, John cleared his throat.

“Not hungry.”

John sighed. “You need to eat.”

“Later. Not hungry now.”

“Sherlock, when was the last time you ate anything?”

“Not important.”

John crossed his arms. “Actually, it happens to be very important. You’ve been out of the hospital for three days, and I’ve seen you eat once. That’s not healthy under the best of circumstances.”

Sherlock made no move to pick up the plate. “Go away.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you eat the damn eggs.”

Sherlock finally looked up, looking annoyed. He muttered something that John didn’t catch (though he could guess what it meant) and set his book down. He picked up the plate and took three bites, never breaking eye contact.

John refused to be the first to look away. “All of it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued eating. They maintained angry eye contact until Sherlock had finished the entire plate. “Happy?”

John nodded and picked the plate up, heading back into the kitchen. “Mhm. You’re eating dinner tonight too.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance and went back to reading.

X X X

John was always up by 8. Always. He was usually up by 7:30, though he did occasionally sleep for another fifteen or twenty minutes, but he was always downstairs by 8.

Sherlock glanced at the clock. It was almost 9. He groaned and rolled over on the couch, curling on his side. It was irrational, he knew that. John was probably just sleeping in. The man was allowed to do that, there was nothing saying he had to be downstairs by 8. It was just habit, routine. He'd probably just stayed up too late watching TV or something. It was nothing to be worried about.

_But he’s always down by 8._

Sherlock shut his eyes, trying to shut out the voice in the back of his mind. John was upstairs sleeping, he’d be down soon enough.

_He left._

No, no, he was upstairs. It was fine, he’d come downstairs when he was ready.

_He left you again. You knew he would. He doesn’t care about you._

Sherlock just wanted to hear him coming down the stairs. He’d even eat breakfast, all of it, without complaining if he could just hear John coming down the stairs. He needed to know he was still here, that he wasn’t alone in the flat. Again.

_You know you’re alone, you always have been. He was just here because he felt guilty. He left you in the middle of the night because he couldn’t stand to be around you any longer. You’re a freak._

He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned again, trying to drown out the voice, but it wouldn’t stop. No, John was asleep upstairs. He wouldn’t leave in the middle of the night. Even after everything, he was still Sherlock’s friend.

_You don’t have friends._

No, he…

_John left you._

The wasn’t true, he was…

_He left you like you knew he would. Why would anyone want to stay with you?_

John was just…

_Freak._

No…

_Broken freak._

Sherlock curled in a tight ball on the couch, not even bothering to argue back anymore. He knew the voice was right. It had only been a matter of time. John had already shown he didn’t care. Why would it be any different this time? He’d only been here out of guilt.

“God, slept a little longer than I intended, sorry. Have you eaten anything? Of bloody course not.”

Sherlock froze. Behind him, John shuffled into the kitchen, yawning. He hadn’t left. He’d just over slept. He was still here.

_Yeah, but for how much longer?_

Sherlock shut his eyes tightly again, wishing that the voice would just shut up.

X X X

_The room was cold. John looked around, expecting to see Sherlock sitting at the table hunched over a microscope or lying on the couch, lost in his mind palace. But the man was nowhere to be seen. John frowned._

_“Sherlock?”_

_He stepped further into the room. Something was wrong. The flat was too still, too quiet. John closed the door quietly behind him. He looked around again and took another step. He round the corner of the couch and stopped cold._

_“Sherlock!”_

X X X

John cringed as he heard the book fly across the living room and slam into the wall. Sherlock dropped back down onto the couch with a thump and an annoyed noise. John poked his head cautiously out of the kitchen. Sherlock was lying on his back on the couch, clutching a pillow over his face.

John frowned and walked over. “Everything alright?” Sherlock said something, but the pillow muffled it. “Come again?”

The pillow lifted a fraction. “They itch.”

John stared at Sherlock in confusion for a minute before it clicked. Sherlock had been out of the hospital for almost a week, so his wounds would be starting to heal, which meant they would be slightly inflamed. Which meant they’d be itchy. John smiled sympathetically. “That’s good; it means they’re healing.” Sherlock let out an annoyed grunt. “A cold washcloth should maybe help. Come on, we need to change your bandages anyways.”

Sherlock sat up, still looking exceedingly annoyed. He got up and followed John into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bathtub. John sat across from him and gently unwrapped the bandages. The wounds were red and warm.

“They itch,” Sherlock repeated, sounding more defeated than annoyed this time.

John wet a clean washcloth and carefully padded the cuts with it, making sure not to apply too much pressure. “I know. It’s one of the worst parts of healing. My bullet wound itched like a son of a bitch for a while. But it’s a good sign.” He got a little more water. “Is that a little better?”

Sherlock nodded. John patted the wounds dry gingerly. “We need to go grocery shopping soon. We can stop at the pharmacy and pick up some Benadryl or something while we’re out. It should help a little too.” John rewrapped his wrists. “Let me know if you need anything tonight, okay? I know how annoying the itching can be, but you can’t scratch or take off your bandages alone, so just wake up if it gets too bad.” Sherlock nodded again and John pinned the bandages gently. “I’m going to make some tea. You want a cup?”

Sherlock made an indistinct noise that John took to be something close to a yes. He got up and walked into the kitchen. There was a soft knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson poked her head in.

“Everything okay, dear? Sounded like something fell.”

John smiled. “It’s fine. Sherlock’s just a little frustrated, that’s all.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “Let me know if you need anything, will you?”

John nodded. “Will do. Night, Mrs. Hudson.” John finished brewing the tea and returned to the living room, where Sherlock had curled back up on the couch. John set the cup of tea on the table and watched Sherlock for a minute. He felt a stab of guilt. He couldn’t help but feel he was doing too little too late. How differently would things have turned out if he had been here for Sherlock earlier? If he’d been here to comfort him when he really needed him instead of just trying to fix things after the fact? He laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded. John stood there for a minute longer before heading upstairs.

X X X

Sherlock sat up in bed, breathing hard. He gasped, trying to get more air, and gripped the covers tightly. His body hurt, reliving it’s time in Serbia. His mind wouldn’t stop replaying the images from his dream. The dark cell, the cold, damp air, the shackles on his wrists, the wooden shaft striking his already raw skin. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to block the images out.

Nothing worked. They wouldn’t go away, they never went away, they just kept playing over and over again and he just wanted it all to stop. He got up and stumbled over to his dresser, digging through one of his drawers. John had gone through the flat and made sure he had all of the sharp objects accounted for, but Sherlock had managed to keep one of his scalpels hidden in his sock drawer. He pulled it out and stared at it. Cutting was a bad idea, he knew that, but he didn’t know how else to make it stop.

He couldn’t cut his arms; John would notice and that wouldn’t go well. Where else though? He gripped the scalpel in his hand, trying to think, but he couldn’t focus. His mind kept on going back to Serbia. He kept thinking about the shaft hitting his back, fists and boots slamming into his side and ribcage, and…his side.

He pulled desperately at his shirt, pulling it over his head. He pressed the blade against the skin on his side, breathing in relief as it broke the skin. It hurt, fuck it hurt, but it was better than thinking, than reliving. He pulled the blade along his side, gasping and gripping the edge of his dresser. It took three more cuts before the memories stopped.

Sherlock sank down to the floor, mind calmer. He stared at the scalpel in his hand, slightly smeared with blood. His side throbbed and bled. He knew he should get up and stop the bleeding, but he couldn’t bring himself to get up. He just sat there, staring and hating himself for being so weak.

X X X

_Sherlock was lying on the floor, still and pale. Blood flowed from two long, deep gashes on his wrists and the carpet around him was soaked red. John ran over and dropped down, frantically trying to find a pulse. Nothing, just cold skin, pale and lifeless like marble…_

_There. It was weak, but there he had a pulse. John ran into the kitchen, grabbing two dishtowels and pressing them against Sherlock’s wrists, trying desperately to stem the bleeding._

_“Mrs. Hudson!” he yelled, voice breaking. “Mrs. Hudson, call an ambulance, now!”_

_“What dear? Is everything…?”_

_“Just do it! Tell them to get here as quickly as possible!” John gripped the towels around Sherlock’s wounds tightly. “Just hang on,” he whispered. “They’ll be here soon.”_

X X X

John trudged up the stairs to the flat. He and Sherlock desperately needed to go grocery shopping today. He’d woken up and found that they’d run out of milk, which he needed if he was going to make breakfast, so he’d run over to the corner store to pick some up. They were almost out of pretty much everything else, though, so they needed a trip to ASDA within the next day or so.

He hated leaving Sherlock alone in the flat, but his door had been closed when John came downstairs, and he didn’t want to risk waking him up. Sherlock didn’t sleep nearly enough as it was and needed as much rest as he could get.

He opened the door to the flat. “Sherlock, you up?”

Sherlock sat up immediately from the couch. “Where were you?”

“We ran out of milk, so I ran down to the corner shop. We need to go shopping today or tomorrow.” He walked into the kitchen and put the milk in the fridge. “And yes, I’m going to make you come with me, so don’t even bother arguing.”

John expected some sort of sarcastic reply, but there was nothing. He shrugged and went about making two bowls of oatmeal. When he finished, he set the bowls on the table and called over to Sherlock. “Come on, you need to eat breakfast.”

Sherlock came in with surprisingly little grumbling and sat down. He moved his spoon around listlessly. He seemed fascinated by the oatmeal, refusing to look at anything else. He ate a little, then put the half full bowl in the sink and went back to the couch, sitting in the corner with his knees drawn up.

John frowned, concerned. He walked over and sat down next to Sherlock uncertainly. “Sherlock, what wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“That’s bullshit, and we both know it.” John sighed. “Talk to me, Sherlock. What’s…”

“I thought you left.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, more vulnerable than John had ever heard it before.

John stared at him for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“I…I thought you left again. I thought you left during the night so that you wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore.”

John felt his stomach turn and he realized what Sherlock was saying. He reached out and put a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “God, Sherlock, I would never do that. I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’m here now.”

Sherlock stared at the wall across from them. “Yeah, but for how long?”

John felt a lump rise in his throat. He slid closer and pulled Sherlock into a hug, running a hand through his hair. Sherlock leaned against him limply. “I’m here for good now. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” He held Sherlock close, trying his best to comfort him. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here before. I’m here now. I’m here for good.”

Sherlock sat there leaning against him for several minutes before abruptly standing up and walking to his room. John watched as he lay down on his bed, back to the door, never saying a word.


	4. Chapter 4

How’s Sherlock? –MH

Depends on the day. Some days he seems like he’s doing better, others he just lays on the couch and stares blankly at the wall or ceiling. I’d say he’s at least a little better overall though –JW

That’s good I suppose. And how are things between you two? –MH

It’s…slow going. I think I did a lot more damage than I thought, and it’s going to take a while to repair. There’s a lot of hurt and distrust on his part, not that I blame him –JW

Just be kind and patient with him. He needs you, even if he’s too stubborn to admit it.-MH

Do you need anything in the apartment? –MH

No, we went grocery shopping yesterday, so we should be set for a while. Thank you though –JW

Don’t mention it. –MH

Would you mind if I stopped by for dinner sometime this week? –MH

Of course not. I think both Sherlock and I could use your company. Does Wednesday work for you? –JW

Wednesday works great for me. I look forward to it. I’ll pick up Thai; it was always one of Sherlock’s favourites. –MH

Sounds good. See you then –JW

X X X

Sherlock sat on the couch, purposefully ignoring John. He draped his arm over his eyes, hoping that maybe John would think he was asleep and would cancel this nonsense, but unfortunately, no luck.

“Sherlock, I know you’re awake. Please help me set the table. Mycroft will be here soon.” John shuffled around the kitchen getting things ready.

Sherlock grumbled and got up, reluctantly taking out three plates and cups from the cupboard and putting the on the table. He walked back over and collapse back onto the couch. “Done.”

He could hear John sigh, but he really didn’t care. He didn’t want this dinner. He knew it was Mycroft’s way of checking in on him, and he hated it. He was fine (he wasn’t really, and he knew it, but there was no reason Mycroft needed to know that), and there was no reason this needed to happen. It was unnecessary and annoying.

He was also nervous. Mycroft would be keeping an eagle eye on him the entire time, and there was the possibility that he’d deduce that Sherlock had cut again. Sherlock still maintained that he was the more intelligent Holmes brother, but Mycroft had his skills and it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that he’d notice. Sherlock didn’t even want to think about how he’d react if he realized that.

Sherlock groaned and rolled onto his side when he heard the knock at the door. Of course Mycroft was perfectly on time, the bloody wanker. John walked over to the door and opened it. The smell of Thai takeout wafted into the flat.

“Mycroft, glad you could make it. Food smells wonderful.” John walked over, tapping Sherlock on the shoulder. “Come on, time to eat. I know you like Thai.”

Sherlock groaned again and sat up. Mycroft gave him a smile, which he answered with a glare before getting up and walking over to the table. Mycroft took the takeout out of the bag and set it on the table. Sherlock had to admit, it did smell good. Thai was one of his favourites (undoubtedly why Mycroft brought it), and the thought of a box of Pad Thai didn’t actually sound that bad at the moment. He helped himself and hoped that eating would keep Mycroft from talking to him.

“How are you feeling, Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. Pass the soy.”

Mycroft obliged, rolling his own eyes. “Thank you for the detailed response, brother.”

“Well, I’m hoping that if I’m vague enough about it, you’ll stop asking me.” Perhaps if he antagonized Mycroft enough they would just spend the evening bickering and he wouldn’t deduce anything.

“Brother mine, you should know me better than that by now.”

Thankfully Mycroft turned his attention to John and began making dreadful small talk. It was all Sherlock could do to keep from rolling his eyes again. He ate his Thai silently, hoping to be forgotten.

Mycroft turned back to him after a while. “Sherlock, how have you been sleeping?”

Sherlock focused on his plate. “I’ve been sleeping just fine.”

Mycroft made a vague noise and shrugged, clearly not convinced. “You look rather tired is all.”

Sherlock glared at him over his plate. “I’m fine, Mycroft.”

Mycroft took a sip of water. “And I suppose I’m just supposed to believe you on that? You haven’t exactly been the most reliable source on the subject recently.”

“Then save yourself the trouble and don’t fucking ask.” Sherlock knew he shouldn’t let his emotions get the better of him, but they’d been so hard to control recently and Mycroft was being a prat.

John cleared his throat awkwardly. “Please don’t kill each other at the dinner table.”

“Then tell Mycroft not to ask such stupid things,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft gave an exaggerated look of offense. “I’m just trying to watch out for you, little brother.”

“Have to admit, I’m kinda with Mycroft on this one, Sherlock. Sorry.” John cleared his throat again. “I’ve really only seen you sleep maybe two or three times since you got back.”

Sherlock gripped his fork tightly. This was getting out of hand, and he needed to control the situation fast. “Glad to see you’re taking an interest in my wellbeing. It only took a suicide attempt for you to remember I existed again.” Okay, maybe not the best thing to say right now.

John looked away, face red. Mycroft frowned. “Sherlock, that was unnecessary.”

Sherlock laughed tersely. “So were a lot of things that happened, but that didn’t keep them from happening.” Sherlock knew he was losing control of his emotions, he knew he needed to stop and collect himself, but he was angry and he was scared and that was not a good combination.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. I…” John started.

Sherlock glared at him. “Yes, well, sorry doesn’t fix things, John. You stated that pretty clearly when I came back.”

John stared down at the table. Mycroft watched Sherlock with open concern. Sherlock silently cursed himself. The way things were going, he was practically admitting to Mycroft that he’d cut again. The man was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid, and he knew Sherlock well enough to read his moods most of the time, especially when Sherlock got emotional.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” Mycroft’s tone was worried.

Sherlock stared at his plate, determined to calm down. “I’m fine.”

“Because if you’re not, it’s okay. Just don’t keep it bottled…”

“I fucking said I’m fine!” Sherlock stood up abruptly, gripping the table with white knuckles. “I’m not hungry. Enjoy the Thai.” He walked quickly across the living room to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Out of sight, Sherlock sank to the floor in front of his dresser. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he control his emotions? It was just so much easier if people thought he was fine, but he was blowing that out of the fucking water at the moment. He closed his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms. He needed to calm down, get himself together.

God he was useless. He was so fucked up and broken that he couldn’t even pretend to be normal anymore. Fucking useless. He brought his hands to his face, trying not to think, trying to empty his mind. He used to be able to do it without a second thought. Now look at him, sitting on the floor, a complete mess. What a wonderful consulting detective.

Sherlock’s thoughts turned unbidden to the scalpel in his sock drawer. He knew it was a terrible idea; John and Mycroft were in the other room, they could walk in and he’d be done, but what he wouldn’t give for the numbing pain it provided. A small cut. It would be fine if it was just small. He could hide it. He could pretend nothing had happened.

He rifled through his drawer, keeping as quiet as possible. He needed this. He knew it was bad, he knew he shouldn’t need this like he did, but god he needed it. Sherlock dropped back down to the floor as soon as he had the blade in his hands. He pressed it against his side, trying not to cry out. His mind went blank for a blissful second. For that moment there were no memories, no nagging voice telling him he was stupid and pathetic, no anger, no fear. Just pain.

After a while, Sherlock put the scalpel back in its hiding place and crawled into bed, not even bothering to change into pajamas. He lay there, curled under the covers, wishing more than anything that John hadn’t found him in time.

X X X

Mycroft sat in the car. He’s driven himself to keep Sherlock’s privacy, and he couldn’t bring himself to start the car at the moment. He knew that Sherlock still had a long way to go before he could be considered even close to healed, but he didn’t think it would be this bad. Sherlock had seemed okay at the beginning, maybe a little pissed off, but that was how he always acted around Mycroft. Things had gone downhill so fast though. Even in the worst of times Mycroft had never seen Sherlock that unable to control his emotions, for better or for worse. Slight probing had sent him completely over the edge, which would’ve been worrying under the best of circumstances. And under the current ones, it was terrifying.

Mycroft let out a sigh. He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Sherlock had attempted suicide in the first place. He’d just always assumed that Sherlock was fine. Looking back, there had been signs. Sherlock had lost significant weight and clearly hadn’t been sleeping. He’d actively made sure his arms and wrists had been covered at all times. He’d isolated himself even more than usual and had even turned down interesting cases from Lestrade. All the signs had been there and Mycroft hadn’t seen a thing.

Mycroft looked up at the windows of 221b Baker Street, a pit in his stomach. He wondered how both the inhabitants were doing at the moment. Sherlock hadn’t come out before Mycroft left, and he doubted he would for a while. John hadn’t been doing too great when Mycroft had left either. Sherlock’s words had affected him, compounding the guilt he was clearly already feeling. Mycroft felt a mix of anger and sympathy. On the one hand, John was doing his best to help and make up for what had happened and he obviously stull cared deeply for Sherlock. On the other hand, though, he was at least part of the reason they were in this situation in the first place. As much as Mycroft liked John, Sherlock was his little brother and he would always come first. Mycroft had hospitalized people for doing less to his baby brother.

Mycroft sighed again and finally started the car. He knew he’d be back a lot more often now. He’d missed the signs the first time and he was going to make damn sure he didn’t miss them again.

X X X

_Sherlock stared at his phone._

_Triple homicide. Corner of East and 22. Could use your help –GL_

_Sherlock normally would’ve been ecstatic for a triple homicide, especially one he’d been officially invited to help on, but now he just stared at the message. He hadn’t left the apartment in over a week, and he didn’t really like doing so right now. He was tired and his body hurt and he really didn’t feel like dealing with Donovan and Anderson either. Anderson had been particularly annoying since Sherlock had gotten back, constantly apologizing. Donovan hadn’t changed; her favorite name for him was still freak, though she had added machine to her vocabulary recently as well.  
He sighed and rolled over on the couch. Maybe he’d just sit this one out._

X X X

John looked over at the couch. Sherlock was lying motionless, eyes closed, but John knew better than to assume he was asleep. They had barely spoken in the day since the disaster that had been inviting Mycroft over for dinner. John desperately wanted to say something, apologize, anything, but he figured it would be better to let Sherlock make the first move.

He glanced at the clock. It was getting late, almost 11. John was getting tired, but he needed to change Sherlock’s bandages first. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Sherlock, we, um, need to change your dressings.”

Sherlock got up without a word and walked to the bathroom. John followed him in. They had a routine by this point. Sherlock sat on the edge of the tub, face blank, not making eye contact. John sat across from him, redressing his wrists and trying not to look at the cuts that littered Sherlock’s pale skin.

This time, though, John took in every cut, every scar, that he saw as he unwrapped Sherlock’s wrists. Some small and shallow, others deeper, still others stretching inches over his skin. He set the bandages on the counter but instead of immediately rewrapping them like he usually did, he just sat there, taking in scars. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in front of him.

“Sherlock,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you. I know that no amount of apologies will ever make any of this better, but that doesn’t mean I’m not sorry.” He swallowed thickly. “I know you’re angry with me, maybe you even hate me, and I don’t blame you. I wasn’t here when you needed me. I was stubborn and angry and I hurt you so much. I got so wrapped up in how I felt that I didn’t even consider what you must have been going through.”

“John…” Sherlock’s voice was uncertain.

John gripped Sherlock’s hands in his own. “No, please, I need to say this. I need…I’m not asking you to forgive me. I’m not even sure I can forgive myself. But I want you to know that I would give anything to go back and fix this, to go back and be there for you. And I want you to know that no matter what happened, no matter how angry I was or what I said, I never stopped caring about you, okay? Never.” 

He took a deep breath and started to rewrap the wounds. When he finished, he kept his hands on Sherlock’s for a moment longer. “If you can’t forgive me, I understand. Just please, I beg you, let me be  
here for you now, even if you never want anything to do with me after. Let me at least do that for you.”

They sat there in silence for several minutes before John finally cleared his throat. “I’m going to go to bed, but let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, his face guarded. John stood up, running a hand gently through Sherlock’s hair before heading upstairs, trying to blink back the tears that were threatening to spill over.

X X X

John came downstairs the next morning to find a scalpel lying on the table. Sherlock was lying on the couch, arm draped over his eyes. John stared at the small blade for a minute before putting it in the drawer where he was keeping all the knives.

“Do you want eggs for breakfast?”

“Yes, eggs sound good.”

John didn’t ask. He didn’t have to.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time for some hudders :) (I also only have a vague idea of how blackjack works...)

Sherlock sat at Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen table, not exactly sure what to do. There had been an emergency at the clinic and they’d called John in. John had fumed (“I took the bloody time off for a bloody reason!”) but had gone in anyways since he didn’t want to be fired. He’d insisted, though, that Sherlock spend the with someone else so that he wasn’t left alone. He’d suggested Mycroft (Sherlock had rolled his eyes theatrically) and Lestrade (Sherlock pointed out that he was probably working so that wasn’t likely to be an option) before heading downstairs and seeing if Mrs. Hudson would be free for the day. She’d said of course she was, and now she was busy making Sherlock tea while he sat awkwardly at her table.

“There you go, dear.” She set a cup down in front of him.

He looked up. “This really isn’t necessary.”

She smiled. “You’re welcome, dear.” She bustled back about the kitchen, getting her own cup ready. “Would you want to play some cards?”

Sherlock frowned. “No, not really.”

“Humor an old lady, will you?”

Sherlock sighed and acquiesced. A few minutes later Mrs. Hudson was sitting across from him, shuffling a pack of cards. “Do you know any card games?” Sherlock shook his head. “Well, then I’ll teach you one of my favorites.” Mrs. Hudson finished shuffling the cards and dealt two to Sherlock and two to herself. “It’s called 21. The goal is to get as close to 21 as you can, but if you go over, you lose. You can take another card from the pile if you want, but be careful because it can put you over 21. When both players decide that they are not going to draw any more cards, they lay all their cards face up. Whoever has the closest to 21 wins the round. Oh and jacks are 11, queens are 12, and kings are 13. Aces can be either 1 or 11, but I usually play with them as 1.”

Sherlock looked up in surprise. “That sounds suspiciously like blackjack.”

Mrs. Hudson gave him an unabashed grin. “That’s exactly what it is dear, just a few tweaks here and there to make it work without a dealer.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “And are you suggesting that we play a gambling card game? Without betting?”

“Oh that’s a lovely idea, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson got up and hurried into the kitchen, coming back with a large box of matches. “We can bet with these. 100 each.”

Cards and match sticks dealt, Sherlock looked at his cards. A 7 and a jack. Total of 18. A good hand. It was too risky to draw a card; he was unlikely to get an ace, 2, or 3, and anything more would put him over. He slid in 10 matchsticks.

Mrs. Hudson drew a card. “I’ll see your 10 and raise you 5.”

Sherlock considered his choices. It was improbable that Mrs. Hudson had a better hand than him. “I see your 5 and raise you another 5.”

“I see your 5 and raise you another 5.”

“I see your 5 and call.” Sherlock laid his cards down on the table, face up. He smiled. He’d won this round.

Mrs. Hudson calmly laid her cards down and Sherlock’s eyes widened. A 9, a 3, and an 8. A total of 20. She swept all of the matchsticks to her side of the table.

“Wh-that’s completely improbable!” Sherlock couldn’t believe his 18 had been beaten. Probability had been on his side.

Mrs. Hudson smiled sweetly at him. “Don’t take my blackjack skills lightly, darling. I’ve been playing for longer than you’ve been alive.”

Sherlock resolved in that moment to do everything he could to win this game.

They sat in near silence, only speaking to voice their bets or call, for close to two hours, stopping only so that Mrs. Hudson could shuffle when they went through the deck. Sherlock won several rounds, but Mrs. Hudson still had the upper hand.

Sherlock leaned back, stretching his arms. “I must admit, Mrs. Hudson, you still manage to surprise even me sometimes. Don’t ever play against John; you will completely crush his soul.”

Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Oh I’d go easy on him. I know you can beat me if you really try, though, so you don’t get any breaks.” She dealt another hand. “It’s good to have the both of you back in the flat.”  
Sherlock didn’t answer, pretending to be focused on his new hand. Mrs. Hudson gave a look over her own cards. “I know you’re angry dear, but you can’t shut him out forever. Or your brother. Or any of us, for that matter.” She watched him silently for a minute. “You’re not as alone as you think you are, Sherlock, and I hope someday you get to the point where you can realize this and accept that you’re worth our love.” She laid a hand gently on Sherlock’s and gave it a reassuring squeeze before sliding 7 matchsticks into the center of the table. “I bet 7.”

Sherlock nodded, not quite knowing what to say. “I see your 7, raise you 10.”

X X X

Sherlock had gotten good at waking up from nightmares silently. He rarely ever cried out anymore. In the beginning, he would wake up yelling and shouting, but he hadn’t wanted to wake Mrs. Hudson up, too many questions he didn’t want to answer, so he’d trained himself not to cry out. It felt good to have at least some control over what was going on.

It had been even more helpful recently. The small amount of sleep he managed to get was punctuated by nightmares, but he’d managed to keep it hidden from John. No screaming, no yelling, no shouting, just sitting up, breathing hard and covered in sweat. No need to talk about it. He always just lay back down, shaking, trying to calm down, ignore the memories.

So when he sat up in bed drenched and feeling like he couldn’t breathe, that was his first inclination. He’d barely been asleep 60 minutes. Hadn’t even managed to get to REM sleep before his nightmares woke him up. He pulled his knees up to his chest, trying to calm his breathing.

Sherlock hadn’t slept more than two hours at a time since he got back from the hospital. It was just as bad as it was before he had tried to kill himself. The world had this terrible clarity that made everything seem blurry. Everything seemed so much more intense. He knew he desperately needed sleep, but he was afraid. It was close to impossible to fall back asleep once he woke up, and when he did, he just woke up again, trembling. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore how tired he felt.

The sound from the living room made him look up. Sherlock still wasn’t quite used to the sounds of someone living in the flat with him. The TV droned on in the room next door; John must have not gone to bed yet.

Sherlock considered lying down and trying to go back to sleep like he usually did, but he didn’t want to lie there, alone, anymore. His room felt too large and empty; he wanted, he needed, sound, noise, something to remind him that he wasn’t alone. Scars lined his arms reminding him of how he’d fixed this in the past.

X X X

John looked up in surprise as Sherlock’s door opened. Sherlock had gone to bed about an hour earlier (John had been surprised by that in the first place, but he wasn’t going to complain about Sherlock getting sleep). He was in his pajamas, flannel pants and a loose t-shirt, not having even bothered to put on his dressing robe. He walked awkwardly over to the couch and sat down, knees drawn to his chest.

John watched him for a minute, slightly concerned. “Sherlock, is everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk?”

“No.”

John nodded and turned back to the TV. He’d been planning on going to bed soon, but it suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad idea to stay up for a little longer.

X X X  
Donovan stared at the list of suspects. They’d gotten absolutely nowhere, no real leads, nothing. She sighed and rested her head on her desk. _Of all the times for the freak to be unavailable…_  
She cringed slightly, feeling bad for calling Sherlock a freak, even if it was just mentally. She was still trying to wrap her head around the fact that Sherlock bloody Holmes had attempted suicide. She could’ve given you a long list of people she thought would attempt suicide long before the consulting detective.

Donovan had always assumed Sherlock was an unrepentant psychopath and felt little to no emotions. He’d definitely worked to maintain that image. Arrogant and rude, he’d never seemed bothered by anything or anyone, or at least nothing more with a passing annoyance with their “stupidity” and “simplicity”. She’s always assumed that he just considered everyone, including John, just a passing annoyance in his life.

It was weird to try and think of him, then, as a human fragile enough to try to kill himself. How long had it been building up? And what had been the final straw? It was morbid, she knew that, but she couldn’t help but wonder. An emotional, vulnerable Sherlock was almost unfathomable to her, but clearly less of a machine than she’d always called him.

X X X

_Sherlock lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t moved in hours, and hadn’t left the apartment in days. This wasn’t necessarily unusual, but he usually was working on a case or otherwise engaged in an experiment. He’d turned down the last three cases Lestrade had offered, and hadn’t done an experiment in several weeks._

_Nothing seemed interesting. He’d try to think of things to do, things to occupy his mind, but nothing seemed worth it. It was all so boring. He knew he needed to go buy groceries, but he couldn’t be bothered. He couldn’t find the motivation to get up and do anything besides staring emptily at the white plaster above him. Hell, he hadn’t even showered in almost three days._

_Even his Mind Palace couldn’t keep him interested. For everything he had in there, all of the information to analyze, there was nothing that managed to hold his attention. He just lay there, body aching but too apathetic to do anything about it._

X X X

Sherlock couldn’t focus on anything. The world was too bright and too loud and everything was too blurry and he just wanted to sleep. He’d tried everything he could think of but nothing was working. He would just lay in bed, mind moving in circles, trying to tire itself out. And the times he actually managed to fall asleep, he didn’t stay asleep for long

He groaned and rolled onto his side. It had been almost 60 hours since he’d gotten any sleep. He was wading in dangerous territory now, getting uncomfortably close to legal insanity due to sleep deprivation. His mind felt sluggish and slow, but it refused to shut off. He couldn’t even seem to find comfort in apathy anymore. He just felt angry.

Sherlock didn’t want to admit it, but he was scared too. He was scared that this would never stop. That he’d spend the rest of his life feeling stuck in his own head, feeling like he was swimming through syrup, knowing that he could go so much faster and do so much more but unable to figure out how to do so. He was afraid that he was broken beyond repair and would never get better.

He lay there for several more minutes before the thought came to him. John always had sleeping pills. He never took them anymore, but he’d taken them for a while because of his nightmares and he still keep a bottle of them in his medicine cabinet. It was a terrible idea; they were prescription meds and there was a good chance they’d already expired, but Sherlock just wanted to sleep.

He crept upstairs quietly, making sure not to wake John. Sure enough, the pill bottle was in his medicine cabinet. He took it downstairs to the kitchen, not wanting to risk the noise of opening it waking up John. A couple drinks of water later, he’d taken two and crawled back into bed, waiting for them to take effect. They were prescription, so they should take effect soon.

Ten minutes later and nothing. Sherlock frowned and walked back into the kitchen. He looked at the dosage on the bottle; he definitely should’ve been feeling at least some effects by this point. He filled up another glass of water and took two more.

Ten minutes later and nothing.

Sherlock knew he shouldn’t take any more. It was dangerous. But god he wanted sleep more than anything else, danger be damned. He took two more.

Nothing.

Two more.

Nothing.

Two more.

He finally started to feel something, but it didn’t feel right. Things seemed dim and he felt lightheaded. He could feel sleepiness setting in, but it felt wrong, and he suddenly found himself struggling to stay awake. He felt nauseated and his hands were tingling. This was wrong, this was very wrong, what was happening? He wanted it to stop; he’d wanted to sleep but this wasn’t it, this wasn’t what he’d been looking for.

His heart was pounding and Sherlock was afraid. He knew what this was. This wasn’t falling asleep; this was overdosing.

Just lay back down and go to sleep. The voice in his head was calm. This is what you wanted. You didn’t want sleep. You wanted it all to stop. Just let it happen. It’s your chance to finish what you started.  
Sherlock sat in bed, gripping the blanket and sweating. He couldn’t lie; he’d thought about this, about trying to kill himself again, since he’d come back from the hospital. It was far from the first time. But now that he knew that it was possible, maybe even inevitable if he didn’t do something soon, he felt scared. He wasn’t sure this was really what he wanted anymore. He wasn’t sure he wanted to die. It was so permanent, and what if he was wrong? What if everyone else was right and it really got better? He was so scared and he just wanted someone to tell him it would be all right.

Unsteady, Sherlock climbed out of bed and stumbled his way upstairs.

X X X

John sat up in bed, momentarily disoriented. His door opened and Sherlock stood there, seeming to waver slightly. John frowned sleepily. “Sh’rlock, you ‘kay?”  
“No, I-I think I made a mistake.”

John sat up further, Sherlock’s voice waking him up. He sounded terrible, voice trembling and slightly slurred. John could see he was sweating and seemed to be relying on the doorframe to stand. “Sherlock, what’s wrong? What happened? Are you all right?”

Sherlock frowned, seeming to have a hard time concentrating. “I couldn’t sleep and I was so tired and I knew you had sleeping pills, you don’t take the anymore, I took some but they weren’t working so I took more but those didn’t work either so I kept taking more…”

John threw the covers back and leapt out of bed, swearing and rushing over to Sherlock. “Sherlock, I need you to focus. How many did you take? And how long ago?” He pulled Sherlock into the bathroom and turned on the light.

Sherlock blinked owlishly in the sudden light and frowned again. “Um, I took…I took eight, I think. Yeah, eight. I think I took them over the last half hour, but I’m not really sure, they were kinda spread out…”

John checked Sherlock’s pulse, swearing. It was racing. He sat Sherlock down on the tile in front of the toilet, propping the lid up. “I’m going to need to make you throw up. It’s going to be okay, but I need you to throw up so that you get the pills out of your system before your body absorbs all of them.” He knelt down behind Sherlock, arms wrapping around him and legs straddling his lower back. He held Sherlock’s jaw, opening his mouth, and stuck his fingers in in an effort to make him vomit. Sherlock gagged and John ran his other hand through Sherlock’s hair, trying to calm him. “I’m sorry, I know this is uncomfortable, but I need you to throw up, okay? It’s going to be okay, I’m here, I promise. I just need you to throw up.”

He stuck his fingers back down Sherlock’s throat and this time Sherlock did throw up, his body wracking against John’s. He gripped the toilet bowl with white knuckles and continued to vomit, John kneeling behind him, running a hand through his hair and whispering that it was going to be okay. The vomiting turned into dry heaving and finally the heaving stopped too, and Sherlock leaned back against John, exhausted.

John gently pulled him up and guided him over to the shower, turning the cold water on. “Come on, we’re going to sit in here for a little, okay? We need to make sure you don’t fall asleep yet.” He helped Sherlock into the tub and sat down behind him.

Sherlock lay in between John’s legs and against his torso, head resting against his chest, cold water streaming down his face. The tub was too small for the two of them, but John didn’t care. He sat there gently cradling Sherlock, hand still running through his hair. “It’s okay, you’re all right. You’re going to be fine. I’m here, you’re not alone, I’m here, everything’s going to be fine.”

He rested his cheek on the top of Sherlock’s head, and he could feel Sherlock trembling and crying against him. He gripped John’s shirt tightly, sobs shaking his thin frame. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…” he muttered against John’s chest between sobs.

John held him tightly. “It’s fine, you don’t need to apologize. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here. You’re going to be okay.” The shower stream poured over them and Sherlock curled against John, sobs wracking his body. John held Sherlock even tighter, whispering that it was okay. He was crying too, trying to reassure himself that it was going to be okay just as much as he was Sherlock.

Finally Sherlock’s sobs stopped and his breathing evened out. John sat up slightly and turned the shower off. Sherlock sat against him, trembling from cold. John helped him up, running his hands over his arms to keep him warm. “Come on, let’s dry you off and get you into something warmer, okay?”

Sherlock nodded and John helped him out of the tub and wrapped a towel around him. Sherlock held it tightly around his shoulders. John grabbed a hand towel and started drying Sherlock’s hair. He grabbed a pair of sweats and a tee shirt he thought would fit Sherlock from his room and returned to the bathroom where Sherlock was still sitting on the edge of the tub.

John gently unwrapped the towel from Sherlock’s shoulders. “We need to get you out of your wet clothes. You’ll get sick.” He gently pulled Sherlock’s soaked tee shirt over his head. He stopped for a moment when he noticed the relatively fresh cuts on Sherlock’s side and Sherlock looked away. John gently patted him down with the towel, careful not to irritate the cuts too much.  
John stopped again when he saw the scars on Sherlock’s back, thick and healed and definitely not self-inflicted. He didn’t say anything, knowing that this was not the time.

He helped Sherlock out of his equally soaked pants and then helped him into drier clothes before rewrapping his wrists, the other bandages having been thoroughly ruined by the water. Sherlock seemed to have gotten at least some of his strength back, but he still moved easily with John’s hands. John guided him out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, sitting him down on the bed.

He brushed damps curls off of Sherlock’s forehead. “I want you to stay in here tonight so I can keep an eye on you and make sure you’re okay, alright? You’re doing a lot better and I don’t think you need the hospital, but I still want to make sure.” Sherlock nodded. John pulled him into a hug. Sherlock sat there limply for a minute before he wrapped his arms around John, gripping him tightly. “Thank you for coming to me. Thank you.”

He pulled the covers over Sherlock and then crawled under them himself. He propped himself up against his pillow, planning to stay up for a while just to make sure Sherlock’s condition really was stabilized. Sherlock rolled over and curled against John, head resting on his stomach and hand gripping his shirt tightly. John smiled gently and resting his hand comfortingly on Sherlock’s shoulder. He leaned down and lightly kissed Sherlock’s temple.

“It’s okay. Sleep; I’ll be here when you wake up.”


	6. Chapter 6

You should come over this week –JW

Is everything all right? What happened? –MH

Sherlock’s all right now, but he almost overdosed on sleeping pills. I’m pretty sure it was accidental, but it wouldn’t hurt for you to come by –JW

I took him to the hospital this morning to get him checked out and everything’s fine. The medication was past its expiration, so it moved into his system a lot slower than it normally would’ve –JW

Does tomorrow night work? –MH

Yeah –JW

I’ll bring take out. –MH

X X X

Sherlock sat on the couch watching TV. He rarely used to watch it, but now he found the sound comforting. John was in the kitchen making tea. They’d gotten back from the hospital about an hour ago. Joh had immediately set about getting things in order, putting their clothes from last night into the wash, moving all medications into a locked drawer. Sherlock had laid down on the couch and turned the TV on and had yet to get up.

They’d spent the majority of the day at the hospital. John had kept an eye on Sherlock all night, but he’d still wanted to make sure that he was okay so they’d headed in first thing in the morning. Sherlock had managed to throw up almost all of the medication before he digested it so the doctors said they highly doubted that there would be any long-term effects. They also pulled John aside and talked to him privately. It wasn’t hard to Sherlock to deduce about what though.

_He should be committed to a psychiatric facility, at least for now._

He could see it written all over their faces, screamed with their body language. He could also see John’s refusal in his posture.

Sherlock haltingly told the doctors about his lack of sleep. John’s eyes widened when Sherlock said he hadn’t slept more than two hours at a time in almost two weeks, surprise morphing into concern and guilt. Sherlock left out the part about the nightmares. The doctor left the room to converse with another doctor for several minutes.

_Can we give him sleeping medication? Do we trust his friend to keep him from over using it? What other choice do we have?_

The room had been silent while he and John waited for the doctor to return. Sherlock sat on the examination table uncomfortably, hands resting limply in his lap. John stood by the wall, not looking at Sherlock. Finally the doctor came back in, telling them that he would prescribe Sherlock some sleep medication, but only half a prescription and the lowest strength. He was to take no more than two at a time under any circumstances, and he wasn’t to start them until next week, just to make sure that all of the other medication was completely out of his body. John nodded and discussed the details with him. Sherlock just sat there silently.

Now he lay on the couch trying to process and analyze last night’s events. He managed to draw two conclusions: he didn’t really want to die anymore, and John still meant a lot to him. He supposed the second conclusion had at least partially informed the first.

A third conclusion was possible too, that John still cared about him. He looked at the evidence supporting the claim; John’s reappearance after Sherlock’s suicide attempt, his obvious guilt, his concern over Sherlock’s physical and mental state, his attempts to comfort Sherlock when something was wrong. Then there was his reaction to last night. His concern over Sherlock, how he held Sherlock as he threw up, as he cried, how gentle he’d been, how he kept reminding Sherlock that he was here even as Sherlock finally drifted off to sleep from exhaustion. There was definitely evidence to support this statement, but Sherlock refused to accept it as a valid conclusion. Not yet.

John set two cups of tea on the coffee table and sat in his chair. He glanced over at Sherlock. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m feeling fine.”

John nodded. “Let me know if you need anything?”

Sherlock nodded back and they watched the TV in silence.

X X X

 

Mycroft knocked on the door to the flat, terrified of what he was going to find inside. John opened the door, looking tired, but glad to see Mycroft.

He gave a tired smile. “Come on in.”

Mycroft walked in and set the bag in his hand on the kitchen table. “I brought Indian. I hope that’s okay.”

John smiled again. “Indian is great.” He walked over to the couch. “Come on, Sherlock. Time to eat.”

Sherlock sat up and Mycroft couldn’t help but cringe. Sherlock looked terrible. He’d lost weight again and dark circles surrounded his eyes. Mycroft had only seen him look worse twice; when he’d found him in Serbia, and in the hospital after his suicide attempt.

There was something different this time, though. Sherlock looked so beaten down and tired, but he didn’t look defeated, not like he had after his attempt. He looked close, but not quite.  
He walked over to the table and sat down, purposefully avoiding making eye contact with Mycroft. John laid a hand gently on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m going to go downstairs and see if Mrs. Hudson wants to come up for a bite. I’ll be back in a minute.” He gave Sherlock a reassuring squeeze before heading down the stairs.

The flat was heavy with silence. Both brothers sat unmoving until Sherlock finally cleared his throat. “I just wanted to sleep. I swear to you, Mycroft, that’s all I wanted.” His voice was quiet and unsure.

Mycroft nodded. “I believe you.”

They sat there in silence again for a minute before john came back up with Mrs. Hudson in tow. He grabbed a set of plates from the cabinet. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

The Indian food was delicious (Mycroft would never go to a bad restaurant), but Mycroft found he couldn’t seem to enjoy it as much as he usually did. He kept on looking over at Sherlock, watching him, wanting to make sure he was okay.

John had filled him in on some of the details. Apparently, Sherlock had barely slept since coming back from the hospital, getting no more than two hours at a time. John assumed it was from depression; Mycroft could tell he didn’t know about the nightmares.

Technically, Mycroft didn’t know about the nightmares either. Sherlock had never told him, though that wasn’t much of a surprise. It wasn’t the first time he’d struggled with nightmares though. When he was small, Sherlock would routinely wake up in the middle of the night and crawl into Mycroft’s bed. On especially bad nights, when Sherlock couldn’t fall back asleep, Mycroft would make him hot chocolate and tell him about outer space until he fell asleep under Mycroft’s covers. Sherlock might not have told him that he was having nightmares, but Mycroft could see the wary exhaustion and his simultaneous need and distrust of sleep. That combined with when he knew had happened in Serbia, and it wasn’t hard for Mycroft to guess.

Sherlock was eating, which was good. He’d lost weight again, probably from lack of sleep. He needed to gain it back to help recovery. He’d never been much of a fan of eating (Mycroft had quite the opposite problem unfortunately), but he usually at least ate enough to keep himself healthy.

Mrs. Hudson chatted for a while, eating a hefty portion of chicken tikka masala. She asked Mycroft how his work was going (he told her he couldn’t tell her, but that it was going fine) and she asked him if he was going to be coming around more, because if he was, she would get him a copy of the key so he wouldn’t have to pick the lock like he had several times before. Sherlock made a sound of protest and annoyance at the idea of Mycroft having his own key to the flat and John laughed. Mrs. Hudson just gave Mycroft a knowing smile.

Sherlock seemed both annoyed and appreciative of the company. He’d always hated social get-togethers as a rule, especially when Mycroft was invited to them, but he seemed to be comforted by the presence and noise of others at the moment. He always made some sort of comment when the room threatened to fall silent, stoking the conversation back up.

After about an hour, the food was gone and John and Mrs. Hudson stood up to clean and do dishes. Sherlock migrated back to the couch. Mycroft offered to help, but John shook his head.

“Spend some time with Sherlock, without us.”

Mycroft wandered into the living room, unsure. It was strange, being so unsure of what to do. He was Mycroft Holmes, Ice King, the British Government; he always knew what to do. But this as such foreign territory and he was lost. He sat down on the couch next to Sherlock, who had turned the TV back on.

“How’ve you been?”

Sherlock glanced over at him. “That’s really a terrible question, Mycroft, even coming from you.”

“I’m trying my best,” Mycroft huffed. “You know this is not my area.” He paused. “But really, Sherlock, how are you?”

To be honest, Mycroft expected a sarcastic reply or a caustic comment or even just anger like he’d shown the last time Mycroft had been over. But Sherlock just sat up and bit his lip, seeming uncertain. 

“I’ve…I’m tired.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? You could’ve gotten help before it got that bad.” Mycroft watched Sherlock for a minute before answering his own question. “The nightmares. You didn’t want anyone to know about them.”

Sherlock looked away. “They’re…I’m fine.”

“Sherlock, look at me.” Mycroft turned so that he was directly facing Sherlock and waited until his brother did the same. “I won’t try to pretend to understand what you’re going through. I won’t try to pretend that I understand how Serbia affected you. I just know that it did, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I may not understand, but there’s someone who will.” Sherlock looked away again, and Mycroft sighed. “You should tell John, Sherlock. He can help, he wants to help, you just have to let him. You and I both know he’s the only one who’ll really understand. Have you even told him anything that happened in Serbia?”

“No.”

Mycroft sighed again. “This isn’t something you can pretend didn’t happen. It won’t just go away if you ignore it long enough. You need to talk to someone.”

Sherlock looked like he was about to say something when Mrs. Hudson bustled in, followed by John. Mrs. Hudson chattered away for a while (god Mycroft had forgotten how much the woman talked) before saying she was heading to bed.

“Let me know if you boys need anything.”

“Why, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock gasped dramatically. “It almost sounds as though you’re becoming- dare I say it?- our housekeeper.”

John laughed and Mrs. Hudson made a face. “I’m your landlady! Not your housekeeper,” she huffed before walking downstairs.

The three men sat there for a while longer, sometimes talking, sometimes watching the TV. Finally Mycroft stood up. “My apologies, but I’m going to need to head out. I have work tomorrow.”  
John nodded. “Thanks for coming by. It was nice to see you again, and feel free to come by whenever.” Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and John frowned at him. “Oh come on, even you didn’t have that bad a time tonight.”

Mycroft smiled. “Brother, you should know by now that the more you resist my visits, the more often they’re going to occur.” He ruffled Sherlock’s hair, drawing an annoyed grunt from him. “Seriously, though, I will be by more often. If it makes it any better, I’ll try to bring takeout when I come.”

John walked with Mycroft down the stairs to the door. “Thanks again, Mycroft, for coming by. I think both Sherlock and I needed it.”

“I think I needed it too.” Mycroft turned to John. “Thank you.”

John looked at him, confused. “For what? The invite? You know you’re always welcome.”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, though thank you for that, too. I meant thank you for taking care of Sherlock. I won’t lie, I did have my doubts about your commitment when all of this first happened, but you’ve proven me wonderfully wrong. He’s my little brother, and it means a lot to me when I see how much you care for him. He may not be ready to admit it yet, but it means a lot to Sherlock too.” John looked away, face turning red. Mycroft smiled slightly and opened the door. “Have a good evening, John.”

X X X

_Mycroft stared at Sherlock in shock. He’d known that Sherlock had been captured by Moriarty’s men in Serbia, and he knew what the common practices were in the Serbian army regarding prisoners, but he’d never thought it would be this bad._

_Sherlock had always been rather thin, but this was a whole new level. His ribs stood out prominently and his clothes hung on him loosely. He was filthy, covered in accumulated dirt and grime mixed with dried blood. What clothes he had were thin and dirty, and he didn’t have a shirt or shoes. Mycroft could see the red marks from being beaten crisscrossing Sherlock’s torso. Some of them were relatively healed, but others stood out red and swollen._

_Mycroft had been afraid that Sherlock was dead when he first entered the small cell. Sherlock was curled in the corner, still and unmoving. Mycroft had stood there for a moment, afraid to find out for sure, afraid that he’d come too late. Then Sherlock had looked up. His expression was scared and defeated and his eyes didn’t have the brightness in them that Mycroft knew so well, but at least they were open._

X X X

John couldn’t sleep. He’d been a bit of a nervous wreck at night since the sleeping pill incident. Anything stronger than ibuprofen was locked in a drawer, but John knew of Sherlock’s lock picking capabilities and the possibility of having lost Sherlock again still rang fresh in his mind.

He figured that if he wasn’t going to sleep he might as well work on some of his overdue clinic paperwork (they were allowing him the time off, given the circumstances, but they weren’t happy about it and were going to make him do as much at home as they could), but decided that he needed tea first. That was how he heard it.

He was sitting in the living room, waiting for the water to boil when he heard a muffled cry and Sherlock speaking incoherently. John turned off the stove and walked over to Sherlock’s door.

“Sherlock? You all right?” No answer. “Sherlock, I’m going to come in, okay? Just to make sure you’re okay.” He opened the door slowly.

Sherlock was lying in bed, covers twisted around his body. He was gripping the blanket with white knuckles and muttering into his pillow in something that definitely was not English. John couldn’t understand him, but whatever he was saying, it wasn’t good.

John walked over to the bed cautiously, knowing all too well that waking someone up from a nightmare could be physically dangerous at times. Some people just sat up without any problems, but others could kick or punch. Given that John had never seen Sherlock have a nightmare before, he had no idea what to expect.

“Sherlock?” John carefully laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, you’re dreaming. It’s okay.”

Sherlock sat bolt upright in bed, and John jumped back. Sherlock looked around wildly, confused and scared, breath coming in ragged gasps. He seemed to collapse in upon himself; he drew his knees to his chest and covered his head with his arms, like he was trying to fend off blows.

“No, no, no no no,” he muttered. “You’re okay, you’re fine, get fucking control over yourself, it’s…” He was cut off by what sounded like a small sob.

“Sherlock, are you all right?” John ventured.

Sherlock looked up, startled. “I…I-I’m fine, just…I just…”

John moved a little closer to the bed, figuring the threat of Sherlock punching him had lessened enough. “You were having a nightmare.”

Sherlock looked away. “I-I’m fine.”

John frowned. He reached out. “Sherlock, you were muttering and gasping in your sleep, you clearly weren’t…”

Sherlock jerked away as soon as John touched him. “Don’t touch me!” John immediately pulled his hand back, surprised. Sherlock drew his knees back up to his chest and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t…I just want to be left alone right now. I’m fine.”

John nodded slowly. “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything, yeah?” Sherlock nodded stiffly, refusing to make eye contact. John hesitated before leaving, not wanting to leave Sherlock alone but knowing the man well enough to know that staying wouldn’t accomplish anything.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock stood in the shower, just letting the hot water run over him. Steam swirled around his body, clouding his vision and obscuring things. The water felt scalding on his back, but he didn’t mind. He was afraid to get out, to dry off and get dressed and go into the kitchen where John would be sitting with so many questions.  
Sherlock knew Mycroft was right; he needed to tell John about Serbia. It was severely impeding his recovery, and if anyone would understand, it would be John. This wasn’t the way he wanted it to happen though.

To be honest, Sherlock had no idea how he would’ve brought the subject up if it had been left up to him. He wasn’t very good with emotions and this was something that he’d completely avoided talking about since getting back. He would’ve at least had control over the situation though. He would’ve been able to bring it up when he was ready (he knew he’d never really be ready to do so, but that was beside the point by now). Now, however, it was out of his control, and that was something Sherlock hated. He hated knowing that John had seen him like that, panicked and broken and vulnerable, complete loss of control. He hated it. And he was afraid of what John would ask.

He knew John had seen the scars on his back after the sleeping pill incident, but mercifully he hadn’t said anything. Sherlock had hoped that he would just leave it alone. Great chance of that now. John wasn’t stupid; he was an army doctor, he knew what torture scars looked like. He also knew what nightmares could mean. It would be easy for him to put them together.

Sherlock wished he could say he wasn’t ashamed of how Serbia had affected him, that he was just a private person and didn’t want other people in his business, but that wasn’t true. He was a high-functioning sociopath, the world’s only consulting detective, and, most importantly, a Holmes, yet here he was, reduced to a pathetic emotional mass by everything. Unable to sleep, unable to function, because of what had happened, and fucking right he was ashamed of it.

He sighed as the hot water ran out. He supposed that was a sign to get out and on with it, as much as he didn’t want to. He toweled himself off, glancing at his wrists. He’d need John’s help rewrapping them, but at least they didn’t need to be changed every other day anymore. It had been hard, watching John take in all of the cuts and scars every night. Objectively, Sherlock had no reason to believe that John had judged him for them; in fact, there was much evidence to the contrary. That didn’t help, though. Sherlock was supposed to be a machine, cold and heartless, it was how everyone had seen him, and the scars were a blaring reminder that he wasn’t, that he was, in the end, only human. He supposed John had seen him that way for a while in the beginning, but three years of absence and a sudden return had changed his mind.

Sherlock Holmes, the machine covered in human scars. It was funny in the sickest sense. Sherlock sighed and pulled on sweater, making sure his wrists were covered. Whether it was from habit or embarrassment, he wasn’t really sure; probably a little of both.  
X X X

Sherlock was avoiding John, and John knew it. First off, the man had taken the longest shower of his life that morning, then eaten breakfast as fast as he could before sequestering himself in his room. He only seemed to come out when John was upstairs, and was always back in his room by the time John was back down.

He was worried. He knew better than to try and force Sherlock to talk to him (because that always went so well), but he was still worried. Sherlock’s nightmare combined with the healed scars John had seen on his back were not painting a good picture. John wasn’t stupid; he knew how people got scars like that, and he was sure Sherlock knew that too, which was probably why he was avoiding John.  
There was another thought nagging John too. If he hadn’t been downstairs, he would never have heard Sherlock’s nightmare. If he hadn’t come down to get tea, he wouldn’t have heard Sherlock cry out. How many times had he missed Sherlock’s nightmares because he’d been upstairs? John knew perfectly well what having regular nightmares could do to your sleeping schedule, and, given the issues Sherlock had been having with sleep, he wondered if he’d maybe missed something. He’d just assumed that it had been insomnia. Sherlock had never been much of a sleeper, and depression would’ve just made that worse. Nightmares, though, added a different dimension to the problem. Recurring nightmares meant trauma, just like the scars did. They meant that something terrible had happened and John had had no fucking clue.

While he was in Afghanistan, they’d gone on a recon mission. They’d gotten intel revealing the location of a Taliban base and hit it at about three in the morning. There’d been some indication that there might be POWs at the base, but none of the soldiers had thought it likely. The Taliban killed their prisoners quickly.

When They’d kicked down the door of one of the last rooms, though, there he was. Clothes torn and covered in dirt, the man couldn’t have been older than 21 or 22. He was covered in bruises and blood. John had been called in immediately.

It hadn’t been the injuries that made it hard, though they were definitely not pretty. The man had been tortured, probably over the course of a week or two, and while none of it had been fatal, all of it had been brutal. John had seen wounds before though, many of them much worse. It was his eyes and his voice that made it hard. The man stared into space with dead eyes, looking but not seeing. He looked straight ahead while John worked at his wounds, staring at the side of the medical tent but seeing something else, something far worse. The rare occasions he spoke, always in response to a direct question, his voice was just as flat and dead as his eyes. John had dreamed about those eyes for longer than he cared to admit, and he knew he’d never forget them.

Had Sherlock’s eyes looked that empty at one point? Had he stared blankly at a wall while a doctor looked him over and took care of his wounds, eyes looking but not seeing? John sighed and glanced at Sherlock’s closed door. The only way to really know was to ask Sherlock, ask him about what had happened, but that was going to be easier said than done. Whatever had happened had clearly seriously affected Sherlock, made him scared and vulnerable, and that wasn’t something he was going to talk about easily. John wanted to give him time and let him talk about it when he was ready, but part of him worried that doing so would only hurt Sherlock more, and possibly put him in danger.

He sighed again. This was not going to be a good couple of days.

X X X

_Mycroft had only asked once._

_To be honest, between his knowledge of the Serbian army, his observations, and the doctor’s report, he already had a pretty good idea of what had happened to Sherlock during his months in Serbia. But all of that didn’t seem enough. The picture felt wrong, like he was missing something important._

_So he’d asked Sherlock what had happened. Sherlock was standing in Mycroft’s office, his first time in London in three years, wearing a tailored suit that hung too loose and looking tired. He’d looked at Mycroft with an empty stare._

_“Nothing of importance.”_

_He’d left not long after, still looking too thin, too pale, too tired, but he was a Holmes. Holmes boys recovered. It’s what they did, what they’d always done. Sherlock would be fine._

_Mycroft never asked again._

X X X

John finally lured Sherlock out around midnight with tea and trashy late night television. He sat in his chair and Sherlock sat on the couch and neither of them said anything for a while. After a while, John cleared his throat.

“You know, I remember when I first came back from Afghanistan, I didn’t tell anyone about my nightmares for months, not even my therapist. And when I did finally tell her, it took a while before I was completely honest about their frequency and content. I didn’t want to admit that the war had affected me that much. Things got a lot better after I started being honest though. They weren’t great, but they were better. I didn’t feel so…alone anymore, I suppose.” Sherlock didn’t say anything. “I know you don’t want to talk about what happened, and you’re not going to want to talk about it for a long time. But I promise you, it’ll help. And when you’re ready, I’m here.”

They lapsed back into silence for the rest of the episode and the majority of the next. John got up at the end of the episode, intending to go to bed.

“Would you…would you maybe be okay with watching another episode?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and unsure.

John smiled and sat back down. “Of course.”

X X X

Sherlock took the pill without water. He still hadn’t been sleeping even semi-decently since the sleeping pill incident and was looking forward to the idea of getting actual rest. He’d slept slightly better each of the past three nights since he started taking the medication, and hoped that the progress continued.

He still had nightmares, though. They were different now, too, more vivid. It didn’t help that the medication seemed to make him confused when he woke up, which was not a good state to wake up from a nightmare in. He thought of telling John, but he didn’t know if it would last, so he decided to hold off. He didn’t want to bother John with it if it wasn’t important.

John took the pill bottle from him and locked it back in the drawer with the other medications. He hadn’t been taking any chances since the incident, not the Sherlock could blame him. It made him feel a bit like a child, which normally would’ve annoyed him to no end, but just felt slightly…comforting now, he supposed. It was strange.

John turned out the light and headed into his room. “Let me know if you need anything during the night.”

Sherlock nodded and headed downstairs. The medication would start to kick in in about 15 minutes, so he decided to just crawl into bed. Sure enough, 15 minutes later, he could feel the welcoming pull of sleep.

X X X

John woke up to the sound of Sherlock yelling. He leapt out of bed and ran downstairs, terrified of what he was going to find. Sherlock yelling never meant anything good. The last time he’d woken up to this, Sherlock had caught the fridge on fire during one of his experiments.

Nothing was on fire this time, though. John could hear Sherlock yelling in his room and pushed the door open. Sherlock was curled in bed, gripping the covers with white knuckles. He was curled into a tight ball under the blankets. His face was buried in the pillow, but John could still hear him.

_“Zaustaviti! Zaustaviti molimo vas! Ja ne znam ništa!”_

John didn’t know what language Sherlock was speaking in, but it sounded Eastern European. John ran over, gripping Sherlock’s shoulder gently.

“Sherlock, wake up. You’re having a nightmare. It’s okay, just…”

Sherlock sat up suddenly, pushing John back. He looked around wildly, eyes wide and scared, hands still gripping the covers. His breath came in gasps. “Zaustaviti…molimo vas… Neću to učiniti ponovo…”

John laid his hand back on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock? You alright?”

Sherlock flinched and looked up, eyes still wide. “…John?”

In all the time he’d known Sherlock, John had only seen the man cry twice; once before he jumped from Saint Bart’s, and once after he almost overdosed a week ago. He’d barely even been able to imagine it. Sherlock had always been so detached, it had seemed impossible. But Sherlock looked undeniably human now. The quiver of his chin, the hitch in his breath, the slight whimper, John knew what was about to happen and sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling Sherlock close.

Sherlock gripped his shirt tightly, burying his face against John’s chest, body heaving with sobs. His breathing was ragged and uneven. John sat with his arm around him, trying to calm him down.  
“Sherlock, it’s okay. You’re safe. You’re at home, 221b Baker Street, with me, and you’re okay.” He rested his cheek in Sherlock’s curls and ran his hand gently over Sherlock’s back. “You’re okay.”  
Sherlock held on to him desperately, sobs still wracking his body. He would mutter things occasionally, but John couldn’t understand them through Sherlock’s tears. He didn’t think they were in English anyways.

It was a while before Sherlock calmed down. Even after he stopped crying, he continued to hold on to John. John held him back, whispering that it was all right.

Sherlock sat back, wiping his eyes. John laid his hand on Sherlock’s knee. “Do you want to talk about it?” Sherlock shook his head. “Okay. Do you need anything? Water or something?” Sherlock shook his head again. “I’m going to head back upstairs, but get me if you need anything.”

He started to stand up, but Sherlock grabbed his hand. “Could…could you stay for a little?”

John nodded and sat back down. “I’ll stay as long as you want me to.”

Sherlock scooted over to make room and John climbed onto his bed and leaned against the headboard. Sherlock lay down, curling back into a ball. John ran a hand through his hair comfortingly. It took a while, but finally John felt Sherlock’s breathing slow and even out as he fell back asleep. John smiled and started to get up, but Sherlock muttered something in his sleep, body tensing. John watched him for a minute before sitting back down and running his hand through Sherlock’s hair again. Sherlock immediately relaxed.

John knew he wasn’t going to be able to stay awake much longer. It was close to four in the morning and he was falling asleep where he was. He slid under Sherlock’s covers and lay down. The last thing he felt before drifting off to sleep was Sherlock shifting and the soft tickle of curls against his chin.

X X X

_“[Stop! Stop, please! I don’t know anything!]” Sherlock cried out in pain as the wooden baton slammed into his back. His body was slick with sweat and blood.  
“[That’s not good enough.]”_

_The baton hit Sherlock’s torso again, and he could feel two of his ribs break. His arms were wrenched painfully behind him, wrists in shackles and suspended from the ceiling. He was pretty sure both his shoulders were dislocated. The man behind him laughed._

_“[You want to fight back? This is what you get.]” The baton slammed into Sherlock again. Sherlock bit back a cry of pain. The man laughed again. “[Oh, you think you are strong? I will make you cry and beg for death before I am done.]”_

_Sherlock’s eyes widened as the man dropped the baton and walked over to the furnace in the corner of the room. He pulled out a blazing poker and grinned. “[This will not be over quickly.]”_

_Sherlock tried to back up, to pull away, but his legs didn’t have the strength. “[No, please, I won’t do it again, I promise, please just…]” He screamed as the poker came in contact with his skin. The smell of burning flesh filled the room._

_Behind him, the man just laughed._

X X X

John woke up to an unfamiliar weight on his chest. He tried to move, but Sherlock mumbled something in his sleep and wrapped his arms around John’s torso even tighter. His head was resting on John’s chest, the rest of his body curled around John’s side.

John stared at the ceiling. He’d gotten himself into a lot of strange situations, many of them involving Sherlock, but he’d never thought he’d wake up to this. Sherlock’s features were soft with sleep, and his curls were an absolute mess. It was…different seeing him like this. John had gotten so used to the harshness of his expression, the cold distance, that he’d never really considered that it wasn’t a natural part of Sherlock’s features. Yet here he was, looking at peace for the first time John could remember.

He thought back to what had happened last night. Whatever Sherlock had been dreaming about, it had been unpleasant and violent. He hadn’t been speaking English either; John wasn’t exactly sure what language it was, but he was almost positive it was Eastern European. He thought back to the scars he’d seen on Sherlock’s back, crisscrossing the pale skin. He thought of how desperately Sherlock had held on to him.

“John?”

John looked down and smiled. “Hey. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

Sherlock frowned slightly, drowsy and confused. “You stayed all night.”

“Yeah, I guess I did, didn’t I?”

They lay there in silence for a while, Sherlock resting his head on John’s chest, John running his hand through Sherlock’s hair. They lay like that, neither man moving, until finally Sherlock sat up. John sat up too, neither of them making eye contact.

John cleared his throat. He suddenly felt very awkward and exposed, very aware of the position they’d just been in. “I, um, I’ll get breakfast started.” Sherlock nodded and got up, heading to the bathroom.

John was at the stove when he came back out. “Got a text from Lestrade. He has a case he needs help on and was wondering if you felt up to coming in. He says it’d just be a one day thing, they just need your help finding a suspect. Do you feel up to it? We don’t have to go if you don’t want.”

“No, I think I’ll be fine. I haven’t left the flat in a while anyways.” Sherlock sat at the table, scanning the newspaper. “Leave after breakfast?”

John nodded. “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll let him know.”


	8. Chapter 8

Greg looked up as Sherlock and John walked in. Honestly, he hadn’t thought that they’d come. He’d hit a dead end with the case though, and no amount of investigating seemed to make any difference, so he’d texted John out of desperation. He’d been surprised when John had texted back, saying they’d be in in a couple of hours.

It had been a little over three weeks since Sherlock’s suicide attempt, and Greg hadn’t really known what to expect. Sherlock looked tired. He’d lost weight and there were dark circles under his eyes. Greg could see the bandages around his wrists. He took the file from Greg eagerly, though, which was better than he’d been in the weeks leading up to his attempt.

He wandered off to an empty office, completely absorbed in the file, leaving John with Greg. Greg shifted uncomfortably. “How is he?”

John sighed. “It’s…a lot happened, and it’s going to take a while to repair the damage. He’s doing better though. It’s just going to be a process.”

Greg nodded. “Donovan, Anderson, and Molly are the only ones here who know. I wanted to respect Sherlock’s privacy.”  
John smiled. “Thanks, Greg.”

Greg couldn’t help but notice how tired he looked too. It wasn’t the sleepless, worn down and defeated tired that he’d seen on Sherlock, but the exhaustion of concern. He rested his hand on John’s shoulder. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

John nodded gratefully and went back to watching Sherlock.

X X X

Donovan was surprised to see Sherlock in one of the side offices when she came in. He was engrossed in a file, completely oblivious to everything else around him. He had the look of intense, utter concentration that he always had when working on a case, but it was different from normal. He looked like intense concentration was the only thing he could manage. He looked drained.

Donovan had always thought of Sherlock as a machine. But now, he looked so strangely human. Yes, he had his unnerving attentiveness like always, but there was also something more, a vulnerability that Donovan had never seen. She wondered if it had always been there, and she just hadn’t noticed.

“Do you have something to say, Donovan, or are you just going to stand there?”

Sherlock’s voice startled her. She shook her head. “No, I guess…it’s good to have you back.”

Sherlock looked up at her for a minute. For the first time, Donovan saw just how human he was. They looked at each other for a minute before Sherlock turned his attention back to the file in front of him. 

“It’s good to be back.”

X X X

Sherlock looked over the paperwork and solved the case after 45 minutes. Greg thanked him and even gave him an awkward hug before rushing out to arrest the suspect. Donovan followed him out.

It was late afternoon by this point, so they decided to stop at Angelo’s for an early dinner. Sherlock insisted he wasn’t hungry and John insisted that they stop somewhere to get something to eat, so Angelo’s seemed like an acceptable compromise. They sat at one of the tables by the window, Angelo fluttering around them like a male Mrs. Hudson. John ordered for the both of them (earning a glare from Sherlock).

They fell into silence after Angelo left. Sherlock watched the world outside through the window, pointedly avoiding looking at John. John went between watching Sherlock and staring at his hands. He shifted in his seat. “How are you doing after the case?”

“It’s good to be back. I missed it.” Sherlock didn’t look away from the window.

John sat silently for a few more minutes, hoping that Sherlock would start the conversation they both knew needed to happen. When that didn’t happen, he sighed. “Sherlock, I know you don’t want to but we…”

“We need to talk.” Sherlock finished John’s sentence. He looked down at the table. “I know.”

John watched Sherlock carefully. He was fidgeting, playing with the hem of his napkin. He frowned slightly and bit his lip, seeming unsure what to say. John had never seen Sherlock look this unsure.

“I...I guess you’ve probably figured out by now that I’m having nightmares. It’s pretty obvious now I suppose. I tried to hide it, I didn’t want anyone to know, but that’s not really an option anymore.”

John cleared his throat. “Do they…do they have to do with the scars on your back?”

Sherlock nodded. “I figured you’d make the connection.” He paused, staring at his hands. “I’ve had them ever since I came back. Every time I close my eyes, the memories replay and I can’t make them stop. I wake up almost every night and I’m so scared to go to sleep. I thought that sleeping pills would help, but my nightmares have just been worse the past few nights. I just want them to stop.”

“Sleeping medications can cause extremely vivid dreams sometimes, and having regular nightmares is just going to make it worse.” John pursed his lips. “We can continue trying the medication for a couple more days if you want, but if your nightmares keep getting worse I suggest you stop taking them. We can try something over the counter and see if that works a little better.”

Sherlock nodded again. Angelo brought their dinners and they ate in silence. John paid and started to hail a taxi, but Sherlock stopped him, asking if they could walk back to the flat instead. John shrugged. It was a nice evening.

Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet as they walked. His hands were shoved in his pockets and he was intently watching the cracks in the sidewalk. John didn’t try to make conversation, figuring it was better to let Sherlock talk when he was ready.

“It was in Serbia.” Sherlock’s voice startled John. It was quiet, almost inaudible. “Moriarty’s men captured me. I don’t know how long I was there, really. I was in the dark for a lot of it, and they only took me out of the cell to…when they wanted information. I would spend days in the dark, no food, nothing. I thought I was going to die. I _hoped_ I was going to die. There was so much pain and I…I just didn’t think I could take much more of it.” Sherlock stopped talking for a few blocks, his voiced full of pain when he started talking again. “They would beat me. At first it was to try and get information, but after a while I think it was just for fun. If I tried to fight back at all, they would just beat me more. Sometimes they’d burn me too. They’d chain my wrists and hang me from the ceiling. The doctors said I might have permanent joint damage in my shoulders now because of it. But that…that’s not what bothers me the most. They broke me, John. If I had known information, if I had had anything to give them, I would’ve. I just wanted it to stop. I begged, pleaded with them, told them I’d do anything, I just wanted them to stop. They broke me, John, and I’m afraid that I’ll never be able to repair myself.” John could hear the tears in Sherlock’s voice, even if he couldn’t see them. Sherlock took a shaky breath. “I’m so scared that I’m broken beyond fixing.”

“I thought that too when I came back from the war. I thought that after everything, I was just a broken, angry man. And I was. I was broken, and I was angry, and I thought that meant no one would ever love me again. But then you came along.” John looked up at the sky as they walked, watching the stars come out. “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, only one in the world. And you didn’t give a rat’s ass that I was broken and angry. You didn’t try to fix me because I don’t think it ever really occurred to you that I might need fixing. That was the first time anyone treated me like that after the war, and I’d say that that helped my recovery more than anything else. So it’s okay if you’re scared and angry and broken. There’s nothing wrong with that. That’s part of recovering. I’ll be here for you just like you were for me.” He linked his arm with Sherlock’s. “Even if it’s just us against the world, I will be there with you.”

X X X

John cried that night. Sherlock hadn’t said much after their walk. He’d laid on the couch for a while, just staring at the ceiling, before finally going to bed. John hadn’t tried to make conversation. He’d made tea and watched TV until Sherlock went to bed, always staying within earshot in case Sherlock needed something or wanted to talk, but he knew the conversation was done for the evening.

It hit John while he was getting ready for bed. The weight of everything Sherlock had told him, the meaning of it, it all hit John. Sherlock had been tortured. He’d been beaten and burned and broken for God knows how long before returning to London and pretending that nothing had happened. Pretending that he was fine and trying to deal with everything by himself. And when he couldn’t, when the pain became too much, he’d given himself more scars to replace the ones slowly healing on his back because pain was the only thing he could think of using anymore.

How many times had John ignored Sherlock’s texts? How many times had he refused to see Sherlock, to go to a crime scene with him? How many times could he have stopped all this if he’d been here? He sat down on the bathroom floor and thought about the last time he’d sat here, holding Sherlock as he threw up and cried. He’d almost lost Sherlock that night, for the third time, because he hadn’t been there before.

The tears came unbidden. John didn’t try to stop them. He sat on the bathroom floor and cried. He cried for Sherlock. He cried for the scars and the memories Sherlock would have to carry around for the rest of his life, because things like that didn’t go away. He cried for Mycroft, who had had to watch his baby brother slip away, who had to wake up to a panicked call from John one day, who blamed himself for not seeing the signs. He cried for Lestrade, who had been stuck trying to help a man he didn’t understand but still cared for. He cried and he couldn’t stop.

John sat on the floor of his bathroom and he cried for everyone except himself.

X X X

__

John –SH _Seen_

__

John, I’m sorry –SH _Seen_

__

I will explain everything, just give me the chance –SH _Seen_

__

Please text me back –SH _Seen_

__

John I need to talk to you –SH _Seen_

__

John please –SH _Seen_

__

I’m so sorry –SH _Seen_

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last section I currently have written, so updates may be a bit slower from now on... Feel free to bother me until I get the next section up, I could probably use the motivation!


	9. Chapter 9

It had been a bad night. Sherlock hadn’t taken the sleep medication. Of course it had been why his nightmares had been worse, it was a normal side effect, he should’ve seen it earlier. But without the sleeping aid, he was awake after just over an hour (woken up by a nightmare, of course), and, try as he might, Sherlock hadn’t been able to fall back asleep. Instead, he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, desperately wishing his thoughts away.

He shouldn’t have told John. He should’ve found some other way, any other way, just not this. He’d just gotten John back in his life and then he’d gone and run his mouth about Serbia. John’s words about it being okay for Sherlock to be broken and scared and angry were beautiful, but Sherlock knew people well enough to know that’s all they were. Everybody stood by, willing to help, until things got bad. Until the nightmares wouldn’t stop. Until the depression got worse again. Until he relapsed or started cutting again or stopped being able to hide everything and pretend he was okay. People always offered their help until you decided to finally take them up on it.

Sherlock lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, wanting to cry but unable to find the strength. It was easier to just lay there. Drowning in his thoughts took less energy.

X X X  
 _Sherlock told me about Serbia. -JW_

_I’m glad. Out of all of us, you’re the most likely to understand at least some of what he went through. -MH_

_Has he told you about the nightmares? -MH_

_I’ve woken him up from a few, yeah. Did you know? About everything that had happened? -JW_

_He never told me much, but I could surmise the basics. -MH_

_I didn’t realize how much it had affected him until it was too late though. -MH_

_How’s he been? -MH_

_Okay. We went to Scotland Yard yesterday to help Lestrade out with a case. No field work or anything, just looking over evidence, but Sherlock seemed glad to be back. I’m going to see if Greg has any more cases like that. Getting out of the flat more would probably do Sherlock some good -JW_

_I’m glad to hear that. Let me know if you need anything or if anything happens. -MH_

_Of course -JW_

XXX

John barely saw Sherlock over the next few days. When he did, Sherlock was usually curled on the couch with his eyes closed, clearly not asleep, but also clearly not in the mood to talk. He barely even grumbled when John made him eat; he just ate quietly and went back to lying on the couch or in his room. There wasn’t any anger in what he was doing, like there had been when he’d first come home from the hospital. There wasn’t much of anything, really. Just a quiet sort of emptiness, and that worried John.

XXX

Part of Sherlock wanted to talk to John. He wanted to talk about his nightmares, about how scared he was, both of the memories themselves and the fact that they would never truly go away. He wanted to let himself be vulnerable in front of someone, because telling John about Serbia had made him realize just how exhausting it was to pretend to be fine, and he was so tired of it.

But there was still the lingering fear that, as much as John had shown support the other night, talking about what had happened, and what it had done to him, would drive John away again. That he’d realize just how broken Sherlock was and how much help he’d need to even come close to putting himself back together, and would decide that it simply wasn’t worth the time and aggravation.

And as hard and emotionless as Sherlock pretended to be, he didn’t think he could handle John leaving again. 

XXX

John set the bottle of medication of the coffee table in front of Sherlock, who was curled on the couch. “I got some over the counter sleeping pills at the drugstore. If you want we can try these and see if they help you sleep without making your nightmares worse.” Sherlock didn’t respond. John sighed and sat in the armchair. “Sherlock, are you okay to talk for a bit? You don’t have to say anything, just listen.” Sherlock still didn’t say anything, so John figured it was at least worth a shot. “You’ve been worrying me this past week, and I want to make sure you’re okay. And it’s alright if you aren’t. There’s nothing wrong with that, and I’ll be there to help you if you need me. But I need you to tell me. I need you to tell me what you need. If what you need is for me to back off and give you space, that’s fine. If you need someone to talk to, or someone to sit up with you after you wake up from a nightmare, or someone to just stay up and watch trashy late night television with you on bad nights when you feel like cutting again, that’s okay too. I’ll be there no matter what. Just tell me what you need.”

Sherlock still didn’t say anything, and after a moment, John started to get up.

“What if the bad nights happen a lot, though?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet.

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock sat up slowly, drawing his knees up to his chest. “What if…what if the nightmares don’t stop? What if things don’t get better soon, if I still need someone months, or even years, down the line?” His voice cracked slightly and he paused, not looking at John. “What if I need you more than you need me?”

John got up and walked over to the couch, sitting next to Sherlock. He laid his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “If you still wake up from nightmares fifty years from now, then I’ll still be there to help you calm down. I meant it when I said I’d be there for you no matter what, even if it was just the two of us against the world. I’m here now, and I will stay as long as you want me to. I’ll stay beside you forever if that’s what you need.” Sherlock was shaking slightly, and it took John a moment to realize he was crying. He put his arm around his shoulder and pulled him into a soft hug, running a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “It’ll be okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully the updates will happen a little quicker than this one did from now on. nothing gets you over writers block like procrastinating school work! I hope you guys like this update, and thank you so so so much for all your comments!!


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock stared at his wrists, hot water running down his back and face. The cuts were healed enough that he didn’t need to wear bandages anymore, but they still looked so noticeable. They were so red and distinct against the pale skin on his forearms, and he hated it. Even the paler, healed scars from previous cuts looked obvious and clear, painful reminders of the months he’d spent alone and tired. He looked away, not able to keep staring at them.

The worst part was that other people would notice. John did his best to pretend like he didn’t see anything, but Sherlock saw his eyes falling to his wrists when he thought Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. He knew John wasn’t looking only out of politeness. 

Other people wouldn’t be so kind. He knew they’d stare, only looking away when Sherlock made eye contact. They’d done it when he was wearing bandages too. Having bandaged wrists wasn’t exactly subtle. Everyone knew what it meant. And the cuts themselves were even more obvious. There was no mistaking what had happened, what he’d done.

Sherlock tried to bite down on the sob building in his chest, but it was useless. The scars would always be there, advertising to the world what he’d tried to do, like a neon billboard of shame. Strangers would look at him and know, clients would see the scars and wonder how on earth someone who had done that could possibly help them. How someone who’s solution to his own problems had been to give up could possibly solve theirs. His shoulders shook as one sob was followed by two, followed by three, and he couldn’t stop them. He’d have to live with what he did for the rest of his life, and that terrified him.

XXX

_John crouched over Sherlock, pressing dish towels against his wrists, praying desperately that the ambulance got here soon. “Come on, stay with me Sherlock, stay with me.” Sherlock’s skin was so cold, like ice, and his pulse was so weak. “The ambulance is coming, you’re going to be okay, just stay with me, please, God, just stay with me.”_

_He could hear sirens in the distance, but they weren’t coming quickly enough._

XXX

John sat up, sweating. He threw the covers back and stumbled across his room to the door and down the stairs. He knew it was just a dream, but he had to check on Sherlock. He had to be sure he was okay.

Sherlock was still awake, sitting on the couch reading a book. He looked up, confused, as John made his way across the room, quick and unsteady. “Is everything…?”

John pulled him into a hug before he could finish his sentence. He gripped Sherlock tightly, breathing calming when he heard his steady heartbeat. Sherlock hugged him back hesitantly. After a moment, John pulled away. “Sorry, I...I dreamt about when I found you and I-I just needed to make sure you were alright.” He sighed. “Sorry if I startled you, I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s...it’s okay. I’m fine.”

John nodded. “Well, I seem to have properly woken myself up. Mind if I watch a bit of telly?”

“No, go ahead. I think Jerry Springer’s on in a few. That’s always a good watch.” 

Sherlock made room on the couch and John sat down, turning the TV on and flipping through the channels until he found something sufficiently trashy and mind-numbing. Beside him, Sherlock continued to read, occasionally looking over when he thought John wasn’t looking. The image of Sherlock lying on the floor in front of the couch, cold and pale, wouldn’t leave his mind though. The rug was still slightly stained from the blood and even though he tried his hardest not to look at it, John’s eyes kept drifting to it from the TV. He’d come so close to losing Sherlock out of sheer anger and stupidity that day. If he’d stopped at the store on his way there, or had stopped to talk with Mrs. Hudson a just a little longer, he would’ve been too late. The doctor’s had almost lost Sherlock as it was. Without thinking, John reached out and laid a hand on Sherlock’s knee, thumb rubbing small circles, relieved to just feel Sherlock beneath his hand. He was okay. He’d made it.

John hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath until he let it out.

XXX

Sherlock stared at the page in front of him, but he couldn’t focus on the words. John’s hand was perched on his knee, thumb rubbing small, gentle circles, and Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was so casual, so nonchalant, he doubted John was even fully aware he was doing it.

Sherlock knew John still had nightmares, but he had assumed they were all about the war. It’d never occurred to him that they might be about what had happened. He was still getting used to the fact that John had come back, that he was here, that he said he wasn’t leaving. Sherlock had planned to die that day almost three months ago, and even if he hadn’t, he’d never expected John to reenter his life.

Yet here he was. Sitting on the couch, reading, John sitting next to him, hand resting on Sherlock’s knee. It felt so good, so...natural. It almost felt like Reichenbach never happened. Like the time he spent in Serbia was just a bad dream. For the first time in a while, Sherlock thought that maybe, just maybe, he could actually be happy again one day.

XXX

Would it be okay if I came over for dinner sometime this week? -MH

Yeah of course. Just let me know when -JW

Does Wednesday work for you? -MH

Yep! -JW

Any takeout in particular you’d like me to bring? -MH

Maybe Chinese? -JW

Sounds good. I’ll see you on Wednesday. -MH

XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's taken me so long to update, and sorry this update is so short! Grad school is kicking my ass.... I have a break from tests for the next few weeks though, so I'm going to try and update a bit more regularly!


	11. Chapter 11

Hey John, I just wanted to check in after the case. How’s Sherlock holding up? -GL

Not bad. I think helping out on the case was good for Sherlock. He could definitely stand to get out of the flat a little more often. We both could -JW

I’m glad. Was worried he wouldn’t take it well -GL

I’ll let you know if any more cases like that come up -GL

Thanks. By the way, Mycroft is coming over for dinner this week. I thought I’d let you know and see if you wanted to come too. He’s bringing Chinese -JW

I’d love to. What night? -GL

Wednesday -JW

I’ll be there! Anything you want me to bring? -GL

Nothing food-wise. If you have any triple homicides though, I’m sure Sherlock would love that -JW

I’ll see what I can find -GL

XXX

John frowned. “Are you really going to wear that to the store? Isn’t it a bit hot for a sweatshirt?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ll be fine. I don’t see why we’re going to the store anyways. Mycroft said he was bringing Chinese.”

“Yes, but we don’t have anything to drink, and I though a bottle of wine would be nice. Besides, we’re almost out of milk.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Boring.” If it had been his choice, Sherlock wouldn’t be going to the store with John at all. He just wanted to stay in. He supposed he didn’t mind Mycroft coming over this evening, at least there’d be Chinese food, but going out to the store to get something to drink just seemed like too much.

Halfway to the shop, Sherlock knew John had been right. It was entirely to warm to be wearing a sweatshirt. It was weirdly warm out for this time of year and he was already sweating. By the time they got to the shop he was uncomfortably warm.

John looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. “You know, if you’re hot you can just take the sweatshirt off. You don’t have a to prove a point of anything.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.” He knew he could take the sweatshirt off. Instead, he pulled the sleeves down a little more and shoved his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t wearing it to prove a point, he was wearing it to keep people from staring. To keep them from seeing his scars.

John chatted aimlessly as they walked through the store, grabbing a bottle of wine and a gallon of milk, a bag of crisps, some ibuprofen, a loaf of bread. It felt so calm, so mundane, almost like nothing had happened. Sherlock tried to pretend like it was like it had been before, that they were just at the store like normal. He shoved his hand further into his pockets and tried to pretend the cashier hadn’t been staring at his wrists. 

XXX

John smiled when he opened the door, waving for Mycroft to come in and taking the chinese food from his hands. “Man, that smells amazing. I’m starved.”

Mycroft took his coat off and followed him into the kitchen. “I made sure to get extra lo mein, since I know Sherlock has a tendency to eat all of it without sharing.” John laughed, and Mycroft heard Sherlock mutter something in the other room. He leaned through the doorway into the living room. “Don’t deny it, little brother, you know it’s true.”

Sherlock sat up, frowning. “Oh piss off.” Mycroft just grinned.

John set about getting plate and utensils out. “Oh, I hope you don’t mind, but I invited Greg too. He should be over soon.”

“Of course, don’t worry about it. I don’t think I’ve ever really met him, so it’ll be nice to get to know him.”

Mrs. Hudson flitted in a few minutes later, Greg following her in. He smiled at John apologetically. “Sorry, I would’ve knocked, but she was already coming up.”

John laughed. “No worries. I think we’re used to it by this point.”

Greg chuckled and turned to Mycroft. “You must be Sherlock’s brother. It’s nice to finally meet you.” He held his hand out and Mycroft shook it. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Well, if it’s coming from Sherlock, I can assure you most of it isn’t true.”

Greg laughed. “I’ll be interested to see what happens with both the Holmes brothers in a room together.”

“Nothing good, I can tell you that.” John leaned out into the living room. “Come one Sherlock, time to eat.”

Mycroft was glad to see that Sherlock looked at least a little better than he had last time he’d been over. Still not great, too thin, too pale, too tired looking, but Mycroft would take any improvement he could get, no matter how small. He mussed Sherlock’s hair. “Good to see you, brother mine.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance and swatted Mycroft’s hand away. “And terrible to see you.” 

Greg slid a file across the table to Sherlock. “It’s not as exciting as a triple homicide, but I could use your help narrowing down a suspect. Thought you might enjoy it.”

Sherlock’s face lit up immediately, and he picked up the file and began reading it. John laughed. “You know, I was kidding when I said to bring a triple homicide, but I won’t complain. I guess that’s what I get for asking in the first place.”

“I’m just glad to have Sherlock’s help again. We all are. Hell, Sherlock, I think even Anderson misses you.”

Sherlock made a face, not even glancing up from the file. “Trust me, the feeling isn’t mutual.”

Mrs. Hudson started dishing out herself a hefty portion of fried rice, “Now now, boys, no talk of murder at the table. At least try to wait until after everyone’s eaten.”

Mycroft shrugged and sat down. “I suppose it’s only polite.” The conversation drifted in and out as people ate, but never died completely. Mrs. Hudson chittered about anything and everything, John asked how the other members of Scotland Yard were, Lestrade updated them on all the relevant department gossip, Sherlock rolled his eyes whenever Anderson was mentioned, and Mycroft exchanged insults with him in between everything else. He was glad to see Sherlock eating (finishing, as Mycroft predicted, most of the lo mein without sharing) and talking. He’d been worried about how Sherlock would be doing after telling John about Serbia. The Holmes brothers had a lot of talents, but dealing with difficult emotional conversations definitely wasn’t one of them. Sherlock still looked tired, but he looked better than he had in a long time.

The conversation lasted for several hours, long after the food had all been finished. As much as Mycroft generally hated socializing (and he usually did hate it quite a bit), he had to admit he enjoyed this. And not just because he was able to check in on Sherlock and make sure he was okay, either. As much as she claimed to just be their landlady, Mrs. Hudson had taken on an almost motherly role in Sherlock and John’s, and by extension Mycroft’s, lives, fussing over them and making sure they were alright, bringing them tea and making sure they wore their coats when it was cold. Mycroft didn’t know Greg as well as he did Mrs. Hudson, but he seemed to fit in just as well, joking and rolling with the strangeness that was any encounter with one, or heaven forbid both, of the Holmes brothers.

Most of all, Mycroft was glad to see the familiarity between John and Sherlock growing again. The occasional, almost nonchalant, hand laid on Sherlock’s shoulder or knee as John passed by, the warm, careful looks. As much as he loved his brother, Mycroft knew there were things Sherlock would likely never tell him, and it was comforting to know that Sherlock had someone else there for him. He knew Sherlock well enough to know that there was almost certainly still some level of uncertainty or distrust, but it was better than it had been at the beginning.

Mycroft insisted on cleaning up this time, waving John, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg away. He was surprised when Sherlock lingered back, seeming hesitant to head into the living room with everyone else. “You okay?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Come on, why don’t you help me with the dishes?” He motioned for Sherlock to come over. “I’ll wash, you dry.”

“I remember this system not working out very well when we were kids.”

“Yes, well, I think the last time we tried it you were 8, so I’m hoping it’ll go a little better this time.” Sherlock grabbed a dish towel and they stood there in silence for a few minutes, only the sound of the sink, clanking dishes, and muted conversation from the other room between them. “How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been...okay.” Sherlock paused. “I told John about Serbia.”

“How did it go?”

“It went...I don’t know...I guess I thought it’d be easier after. That things would get better. And I guess they have a little, but it...it’s still hard.” He sighed. “I knew I was going to have to live with what happened for the rest of my life. But...I think I’m just now realizing that I’m going to have to live with what I did for the rest of my life too. And that’s not a nice thought to be stuck with.” Sherlock paused again, staring at the dish he was drying intently. Mycroft watched him, worried, but didn’t say anything. After a moment Sherlock spoke again. “It’s nice having John here though. I still worry sometimes that he’s, you know, that he’s going to leave again, but he hasn’t. And I don’t think he will. It’s...nice.”

Mycroft smiled. “He made a lot of mistakes, but he cares about you. Sometimes I think almost as much as I do.”

“I think you’re starting to melt, Ice King.”

Mycroft elbowed Sherlock lightly. “Piss off.” 

Sherlock laughed. “Yes, my liege. Hey, wha-” Sherlock tried to dodge as Mycroft flicked dish water at him, but he wasn’t quick enough. “Oh, so we’re playing this game now? Fine.” Sherlock reached over into the sink and splashed water onto Mycroft’s shirt. Mycroft retaliated, laughing, and it wasn’t long before both of them were covered in water.

John stuck his head in, frowning. “What’s all the commotion? Are…Oh for christ’s sake, I can’t leave you two alone for a minute!”

“He started it.” Sherlock pointed indignantly at Mycroft.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Really? Well, you’re the one who taunted me. You know me well enough to know what that leads to.”

John sighed and shook his head. “I don’t care, just please go get towels and dry off. Neither of you are allowed to wash the dishes again.”

Sherlock shrugged, grinning. “Fine by me.”

XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'm still working on this fic, I'm just very slow. I know this update is short, but hopefully I can get another one written before the end of the weekend. Happy late thanksgiving!


	12. Chapter 12

John settled onto the couch and turned the TV on, flipping through the channels trying to find something trashy enough to be entertaining but mind numbing enough to not require any thinking. It’d been nice to have Mycroft, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson over for dinner, but he was glad to have the apartment back to just him and Sherlock. He’d started to get used to the quiet days, just the two of them. Sherlock was laying on the couch next to him, flipping through the file Greg had brought. “Anything interesting?”

Sherlock frowned. “The wife clearly did it. She framed the home invasion so she could collect her husband’s life insurance policy. I have no idea why Grant…”

“Greg.”

“...Greg couldn’t figure this out. It’s so obvious.”

John laughed. “What’s obvious to you is usually far from obvious to the rest of us.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It wouldn’t be if you just paid attention.”

John chuckled as went back to flipping through the channels. “You and Mycroft seemed to have a good time. You two completely soaked the kitchen.”

“It’s not my fault. He’s the one who antagonized me.” He was quiet for a minute. “It was nice having him over though. Greg and Mrs. Hudson too.”

“You were surprisingly social.”

“I don’t know, I guess…” Sherlock paused, seeming to struggle to find the words he was looking for. “They already know what happened. It’s still hard, knowing that they know, but I guess it’s better than having to deal with people who don’t. It feels like less pressure somehow. Less pressure to be okay.”

John looked over at Sherlock. “I think they appreciate it too, you being open with them. They care about you.” He laid a hand gently on Sherlock’s knee. “So do I.” He turned back to the TV, but kept his hand on Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock eventually went back to reading through the file, but kept his knee right where it was.

XXX

Sherlock sat at the table, doing his best to ignore the plate of eggs John had set in front of him. If he ignored them long enough, maybe John would take them away and he wouldn’t have to eat them. Knowing John, that wasn’t a very likely possibility, but it was at least worth a try. He glanced back over the file Greg had left when he'd come over for dinner the other night.

**The wife killed the husband and made it look like a home invasion. She just wanted the life insurance payout -SH**

**Her story doesn’t match up with the time codes on the alarm system -SH**

**I’m sure you’ll find the missing jewelry in a nearby pawn shop. She’s not the typical pawn shop customer so the owner will most likely remember her -SH**

**Thanks! -GL**

**God I missed having your help on cases -GL**

**Try to find a more interesting one next time. This one was dull -SH**

“Come on, eat your eggs.”

“Not hungry.”

“I don’t care. Eat the eggs.”

Sherlock sighed and took a reluctant bite. “I told Graham…”

“Greg.”

“...Greg to send a more interesting case next time.”

John laughed. “I’m sure he’s glad to have you back, though the rest of the department might not agree.”

“It’s not my fault they’re all idiots,” Sherlock muttered. John just laughed more. Sherlock took another reluctant bite of the eggs. It was utterly annoying how good John was at cooking eggs. He knew exactly how Sherlock liked them, and would always cook them like that. It made it that much harder for Sherlock to ignore and not eat them. 

As annoying as it was though, it was strangely nice that John remembered. It had been a while. Pre-Reichenbach. That was the last time John had made eggs for the two of them until after Sherlock had attempted suicide, but he hadn’t had to ask how Sherlock like them. He’d just remembered.

Sherlock looked down at the plate as he took another bite, looking away immediately when he caught sight of his wrist. He pulled his shirt sleeve down roughly, not wanting to have to look at the scar. His appetite suddenly seemed even less than what it had been before.

He glanced up at John for a moment. He was busy at the sink, washing the pan he’d used to make eggs, and waiting for the kettle to boil. Sherlock paused, not sure how to ask what he was thinking. “John, have you…” he stopped. “Have…are you ever self conscious about your scar?”

John turned around slightly, frowning. “The one from where I was shot?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh yeah, definitely. It took me a long time before I’d wear any sort of shirt that left it visible, and even now sometimes I feel like people are staring at it. Why do you…oh.” He paused, a look of understanding dawning on his face. “Your wrists.” Sherlock nodded, looking down. John turned the water off and dried his hands before sitting down across from Sherlock. “What’s going on?”

Sherlock shrugged, not looking John in the eyes. “I can feel people stare at them. And it’s not like its difficult to figure out where they came from. A straight scar on someone’s wrist only comes from one thing, and it’s like I can feel them judging me for it. And what about clients? They’re going to know exactly what I did. I don’t know, I just…I hate knowing that other people know.” He paused. “I know you stare too, you just pretend not to to be polite.”

“I don’t mean to stare, Sherlock, and if you ever catch me doing it again, call me on it, okay? I don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable.” John sighed. “It’s hard, knowing that people are staring. It was hard for me to get used to it, and I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you. It’s especially hard because scars don’t go away. I eventually learned to think of it like just another part of me though, like my height or the colour of my hair or eyes. I’m 5’7”, I have dirty blonde hair, and I have a scar on my shoulder from where I was shot during my tour in Afghanistan.”

“It’s different for me though. You were shot by someone. I was…I did this to myself.”

John reached over and gently took Sherlock’s hands. “Sherlock Holmes, you’re 6 feet, you have a mess of untamable black curls, and you suffered through depression after a traumatic event in silence. You felt trapped and did what you thought was your only option. You’re survived though, and let me tell you, that makes you stronger than almost any man I’ve ever known. I can’t tell you that other people won’t stare or judge because some of them might. But I can tell you that you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. I know it might take a long time before you believe me, but I’m telling you the truth. You have nothing to be ashamed of.” He looked over at the stove as the kettle started to boil, and gave Sherlock’s hands a squeeze before standing up. “Still want a cup of tea?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“No problem.”

They stood in silence form a minute as John got the tea ready. “My hair isn’t that messy.”

John laughed and looked back at Sherlock, who had his arms crossed. “Sherlock, your hair is so messy I think it might actually be sentient. That’s the only explanation for why it looks the way it does all the time.”

“Oh piss off.”

John set the two mugs of tea down on the table. “Listen, if you can ever get those curls into a semi-reasonable state, I will eat my words without hesitation. Until then though, I think we both know I’m right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! this fic isn't dead! I'm just really terrible at updating!!


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